No Good Deed
by DrawMeASheep
Summary: COMPLETE. Someone from Ziva's past comes back to haunt her, with sexy results. That's a bad place for a Simpsons' joke, because there are also really, really terribly awful results. Less casefile than its predecessors, more undercover op.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Nothing. Still. But Christmas is coming.

Summary: Things happen. Mostly bad things. Maybe a few good things; for example, the rating will be going 'M' at some point. I feel like I'll need to justify a lot of things, but if I do it in the summary, I'll be spoiling things. The first chapter takes place after other events in the story that you'll be reading about eventually. Just bear with me if you care to. Excluding this first chapter, the Tiva elements in the ensuing chapters will actually decrease as the plot thickens, so if you're not down with that, it won't be the main focus of the story.

Spoilers: _Locked_ and _Taking it for Granted_. Find them in my profile pasture. I won't be so presumptuous to suggest you read those first, but this one is continuous with those. I have my own canon, and I may shoot you with it in spite of its homonymic nature.

* * *

A freezing wind swept through the Parisian night, carrying the distorted sounds of traffic and late revelry. Ziva's dark red silk robe billowed around her, exposing her bare feet and legs to the cold. Her matching nightgown clung to her back, tacky with perspiration. She could feel sweat trickling down her forehead also, but her tight grip on her Jericho 941 never wavered. She kept it steady and level, right hand squeezing the textured grip, left hand supporting the right. In spite of the cold and her state of undress, the only place she felt a chill was around the platinum band on her left ring finger.

Dmitri stood at her side, almost casually aiming in the same direction she was. He leaned toward her, placing his free hand on her lower back and whispering in her ear, "They will not dare shoot me, not without the code. But you? They will use you against me. We must leave."

She glanced over her shoulder, her view partially obstructed by her wind-whipped hair. She could probably survive a fall into the water from this height, but the river was too far. She would die in the street if she jumped. "How?"

He pressed his lips against the hair at her temple. "I will make a deal."

"Impossible. They'll never allow us to get away." She turned her complete attention back to her targets.

Across the rooftop, Tony, Jen and Gibbs blocked the only viable escape, pointing their own weapons in her direction. They wouldn't hesitate to fire any more than she would. Tony looked especially determined; the white splint on his nose made his eyes and the bruising under them appear more vivid.

Their eyes locked for only a moment. She looked away first.

Dmitri was shouting to be heard over the gusting wind. "You will never find the bomb unless I tell you where it is, and you will never disarm it unless I give you the code."

"What do you want?" Jen asked, the tension obvious in her body bleeding into her voice.

"Safe passage for Ziva and I. You will transport us to the private airfield where my jet, which you will not track, is waiting. I will give you location of the bomb when we arrive at the airfield. "

"And the code?"

"I will call you from the air."

"Not good enough, Tushkevich!" Gibbs yelled. "We can't trust you."

"Perhaps not," Dmitri replied, "but you will know where it is. That at least gives you a chance to prove how good your munitions teams are. Do you still have Smerdyakov?"

"Yes." Jen narrowed her eyes. "You can have either Smerdyakov or her, not both."

"Don't be a fool, Shepard." Dmitri laughed, pulling Ziva closer to him. "What would I want with that weasel? You can keep him. He is a traitorous devil. I just wanted to make sure he won't be bothering us."

Without taking her eyes off the group of NCIS agents, Ziva whispered, "You'll really give them what they want?"

"Of course."

"Why? That bomb is worth millions. If they get it you gain nothing."

"And if I don't tell them where it is they will kill you, and I will still have nothing." He kissed her temple again. "You are worth more to me than anything I could ever sell." She drew a shaky breath as her eyes flicked toward him. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He raised his voice to ask, "What is your answer?"

Jen slowly lowered her weapon. "We accept your terms. You tell us where it is in exchange for safe passage."

Ziva didn't look at the people she'd called colleagues as she and Dmitri passed between them. Tony's gaze would be especially painful right now. The situation had been out of her control from the very beginning; she was willing to admit that now that it was too late. She had promised herself she wouldn't hurt anybody. She had failed miserably.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three months earlier._

The room was bathed in eerie blue light. Tony blinked hard and realized it was coming from the TV. They must have both fallen asleep before the end of the movie, and the DVD player had automatically switched to its standby mode. This had been happening a lot since Ziva had been released from the hospital. He spent four or five nights a week at her place. Her couch was going to have an imprint of his body by the time she'd fully recovered.

Of course, her couch wasn't so bad, especially not at present. He was feeling quite cozy between its padded arm on one side and Ziva's warm body curled against the other. He tightened his arm around her and gently kissed the top of her head. Her breathing remained deep and regular. He pulled up the blanket that had slid down to her waist. His hand brushed her breast and she shifted in her sleep, her arm falling from where it had been lying on his stomach to his lap.

He was careful not to move too much as he reached for the remote on the coffee table. SportsCenter would probably be on. SportsCenter was always on. He turned the volume all the way down as a precaution before changing the input to the TV. He flipped to channel 42 and smiled. She'd gotten cable only at his insistence almost a year after coming to America. Oooh, _Coming to America_. They could watch that tomorrow. He laughed softly, "The royal penis is clean."

The noise didn't wake her. He sighed and increased the volume on the TV. If he'd known then that he was going to be spending so much time at her place, he'd have pressured her into a satellite hookup. Pressure was probably the wrong word; he'd never be able to force her to do something she didn't want to do.

The commercials ended and the final minutes of a basketball game were winding down on ESPN, Lakers at Kings. He turned the volume up slightly. She suddenly moved again, her hand sliding up his thigh as she cuddled closer. "Just two weeks," she mumbled, nuzzling his neck.

He sat a little straighter. "Two weeks what?"

"Huh?" Her eyes opened wide as she woke, looking around her living room. "Two weeks what?"

"That's what I just asked." He tried to press his back deeper into the couch; her hand was resting motionless on his inner thigh.

"Why did you ask that?"

"Because you said 'just two weeks.'"

"Oh." Her eyes flicked back and forth. "I, um, asked my doctor and he said two weeks."

"You already had your last stitches out, so I'm guessing…solid food three meals a day?"

"No, that's only one week."

"So, what?"

She looked around the room again, as if the answer were written on a wall. She spoke slowly, "Uh, well, two weeks until I can resume all normal activities as I see fit."

"That's good." There was something she wasn't saying that he was supposed to be getting. She was more like a normal woman than he'd ever suspected.

"Excluding combat training, of course."

He grinned. Less normal again. "And how long 'til you're allowed to start literally kicking ass again?"

"I think you're missing the point." She looked at him significantly.

"Oh." He still had no idea what the point was. He continued grinning mindlessly. She left him very little doubt as she straddled his lap. "Oh! Hey, didn't think you were well enough to move that fast."

Her throaty laugh was right in his ear as she tugged his earlobe with her teeth. "You've been thinking about this. A lot." She ground her hips into him. "You can't tell me you're not _up _for it." She trailed her lips and tongue down his neck.

His hands found the curve of her waist. It was all he could do to resist pushing her onto the coffee table and showing her exactly what he was up for. Sleeping on her couch several nights a week had given him ample opportunity to fantasize about all the different positions possible on every article of furniture in the living room. And kitchen. And breakfast nook.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to clear his head, a feat that took more effort than he would have thought. Having her lips pressed against his neck while she unbuttoned his shirt was proving to be a poor aid to concentration. He tangled his hands in her hair, pulling her head up so he could see her face. "You just said two weeks."

"After I said it I thought it sounded like much too long." She made several playful lunges toward his face.

He kept her at bay. "Your doctor said two weeks, we're waiting."

She frowned and pushed his shoulders into the couch. "You really want to wait?"

"Not really, but I'm not gonna risk hurting you."

Her expression softened. "That's why you've insisted on sleeping on the couch?"

"Yeah."

She laughed as she swung her leg around and slid off his lap. "I was starting to get worried."

"About what?"

"Tony, you've been staying here every other night since I was released from the hospital and you've yet to make a move, even in the past week when I've really been feeling better. I was starting to think you saw me as…an invalid, as someone you had to take care of."

"Not at all. I _do_ see that you're still sore when you're just moving around. If we…and I…I mean you…well, I'm not really up for another guilt trip right now," he finished lamely.

"Me neither." She patted his cheek. "Just remember that you put _yourself_ through that, though." She stood and walked toward the kitchen. "But that doesn't explain why you won't kiss me."

He followed. "I kiss you sometimes."

"On the forehead, on the cheek. Yesterday you kissed the end of my nose for some reason. You're always very careful to avoid my mouth."

"It's that whole temptation thing, I guess." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to look at her. Even dressed as she was now, in a long sleeve t-shirt and loose running pants, he found her desirable. It was most likely because he knew what was under the clothes. He'd been treasuring that memory for almost a year; it usually only served to remind him that the reality of naked Ziva was much, much better.

She seemed to pick up on exactly what he was thinking about. "The last time you kissed me it didn't lead to sex."

"No, but it did lead to fake sex. And besides, we were working."

"Fine," she huffed, taking his hand. "But you're coming to bed tonight."

He reluctantly allowed himself to be towed toward the bedroom. "Ziva…"

"Just to sleep. It can't be comfortable staying on the couch every night."

"I'll be good if you will."

They had just stepped into the bedroom when she pressed the length of her body against him. "No promises," she whispered, pulling him into a deep kiss. Everything that had been holding him back was instantly forgotten. He ran his hands through her hair before sliding them down her sides, tracing her curves. Her skin was warm when they slipped under the hem of her shirt. His fingertips skimmed along her smooth stomach until they encountered a patch of rough, raised skin – the scar from the exit wound. He intensified the passion of the kiss before exerting some pressure on her abdomen where his hand was. She gasped audibly, turning her head to the side.

"I'm sorry." He sighed and kissed the rim of her ear. "You're not ready."

"Yes I am." She turned back to him, meeting his gaze. "I want to be."

He kissed her lips gently. "Two weeks."

"How about one?"

"How about you go to bed? Tomorrow's your first day back."

"Yeah, for desk duty." She walked into the bathroom with Tony on her heels. "Gibbs is going to have me filling out paperwork and making phone calls." She squeezed a small glob of toothpaste onto her toothbrush.

"It's not like we've had all that much going on since you've been out." He followed her lead, taking the toothpaste from her hand. He tried to speak around the froth building in his mouth as he brushed, "Obber dan dat bissing berson. Y'know, ah Weh-day we ab a sebinah."

"Eh?"

"Cobbunication ih dah workplaf. Dah bou-shur wub bery," he paused to spit, "informative." He opened her medicine cabinet to get the floss. Working a long string through his molars, he continued, "Ish all alout e-otional ish-ush an gonflit rechilution." He rinsed and spit. "Sounds like a nice eight hour nap to me."

She cleaned her own toothbrush under the faucet. "Think I could get medical leave for another week?"

"Everybody but Gibbs and the Director thinks you do."

He watched as she brushed her thick, dark hair. "I just want to quietly walk in, sit at my desk and get to work." She shoved him ahead of her as she left the bathroom, clicking the lights off behind her. "Want to buy me breakfast tomorrow morning?" Her arms encircled his waist as she hugged him from behind.

"Sure." He tried to move toward the door, but she wouldn't let him go.

"Come to bed?" He felt her kiss his back through the material of his shirt. "I'll stay on my side if you stay on yours."

Under the covers less than five minutes later, she seemed to change her mind, snuggling close to him. "You know, there are…other things I could do for you, even if we're not going to…"

He grabbed the hand sliding down his stomach and placed it back on his chest. "Didn't we go over the whole temptation thing?"

"You have that little self-control?"

Her fingers, combing through his chest hair, were certainly testing it. "Let's not find out."

She settled her head on the pillow just above his shoulder. "In a week you're going to be kicking yourself for waiting."

"Yeah, well in the meantime I can keep explaining to your shower drain why I never call the next day." He closed his eyes to block out her surprised, openmouthed grin. "We're gonna pretend I didn't say that out loud."


	3. Chapter 3

Abby covered her mouth as she yawned. She didn't have any reason to be tired. She'd been getting plenty of sleep in the past few weeks. Maybe that was the problem – too much sleep. The entire criminal world, at least as it related to the Navy, had ceased to exist after the Neal case had been resolved. She had a theory involving cosmic equilibrium being attained while Ziva recovered from her injuries, but it fell apart in the face of reality. Murders and kidnappings hadn't stopped when Kate had died, after all. It was probably just a coincidence. Uh huh.

She walked around her lab, flicking the 'on' switches of lights, computers and spectrometers. Bert sat in her desk chair. "I don't suppose _you_ signed in any evidence for me to process while I wasn't here?" He didn't respond until she gave him a squeeze. "Yeah, didn't think so." She placed him on the desk in front of her as she sat to check her email. "Feel like going to the communication seminar for me today? No? Can't say I blame you."

Her eyes scanned the topic heading of her correspondence. McGee. General Office Memo. McGee. McGee. Carter. McGee. Wait, Carter? In the evidence locker? She clicked on the tiny envelope and read eagerly, trying to pick out the bits that would involve mixing chemical solvents and running PCRs. She was sorely disappointed. "Damn. Well, at least Tony will be happy."

Ten minutes of awkward one-sided flirting later, she toted two plastic bags up to the squad room. Tony and Ziva were both sitting at their respective desks, quietly typing as they consulted file folders. They weren't even looking at each other. Abby decided she should have just read McGee's emails if she wanted to catch them in the act. He'd been sending her at least five messages an hour since Ziva had returned to work two days ago, reporting the suspected couple's interaction in excruciating detail. Abby had yet to see a change in their behavior, so she suspected McGee of embellishment for the sake of exercising his literary muscles. Things like 'gentle caresses' were so not happening with Gibbs sitting right there.

"Morning, all." She dropped the two bags in front of Tony. "I hope you realize what I just went through to get these for you. I don't think Derrick understands that I only talk to him because it would be impolite to rummage through the evidence locker without acknowledging him."

"Yeah, not to mention a breach in protocol. What is this?" Tony smoothed the plastic over the lumpy contents as he tried to make them out.

"Your clothes, from the crime scene. They've just been released from evidence."

"Right." He had already placed the bag with the jeans in the garbage can next to his desk and now frowned, holding the bag containing his shirt.

Running a crime lab meant Abby was fully prepared with solutions for situations such as this. "If you soak it in a hydrogen peroxide solution you might be able to get the bloodstains…" she stopped suddenly and looked over her shoulder. Ziva was making a point of not listening. "I'm sorry."

She looked up and smiled faintly. "It's okay, Abby."

Tony was still looking ruefully at his shirt. "I'm just gonna toss it."

"That's too bad." Ziva had come over to join the conversation. She fingered the plastic bag. "I liked that one."

He looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. You were wearing it the first time we met." Her cheeks colored slightly as he raised his eyebrows.

"I had no idea you were paying such close attention. Of course, I was so distracted by that hair thing you did…"

"Hair thing?"

"Oh, yeah." He smiled at the memory. "It's a good thing you told me you were Moussad before you did it, too, because I _know_ I would have said something you would have made me regret."

Abby rolled her eyes; maybe McGee hadn't been exaggerating. "Yeah, you guys are just a little too cute for eight in the morning. Isn't there a rule about this?"

"Number twelve, Abs." Gibbs walked up and handed her a Caf-Pow, giving a tray with four coffees to Tony. "And they assured me I wouldn't have to keep reminding them about it."

"Right, boss," Tony replied, turning his full attention to pouring sugar into his coffee.

Ziva tried to escape back to her own desk, but Gibbs grabbed her elbow, confiscating the cup she had just taken and handing her another. "This one's yours. McGee here yet?"

"In the bathroom," Ziva answered, staring sullenly at her cup.

Gibbs placed the final cup on McGee's desk and headed for the stairs. "I'll go see if the Director has granted us clemency."

"Yeah, right after she cured cancer and declared world peace," Abby muttered. She sat on the edge of Tony's desk. "Is it wrong that I'm hoping a murder is discovered in the next ten minutes?"

"Only if it's wrong for one of us to stab the guest speaker." Tony glanced at Ziva, who had stolen over to McGee's desk to exchange cups. "You up for that, my little assassin?"

She took a sip from McGee's cup and smiled. "What happened to sitting in the back and sleeping until lunch?"

He turned back to Abby. "You can tell she's not one-hundred percent yet because she didn't jump at the chance to kill someone."

"Who are we killing?" McGee asked nervously, coming around the corner.

Abby hopped off Tony's desk. "We haven't picked our target yet, Timmy. Any suggestions? Perhaps the harpy that gave you that bruise?"

McGee self-consciously touched his cheek. "I told you it was just a misunderstanding. She thought I was making a personal attack on her cousin the ice skater when I said I thought all the guys in the show were of questionable masculinity."

Tony shuddered. "Stars on Ice. I don't think I've _ever_ been that desperate."

"Oh, because you've never had a bad date." McGee took a sip from his coffee cup. "Uh, Ziva I think this one's yours."

"I don't think so, McGee."

"So Gibbs brought us both warm milk today?"

She sipped from her purloined cup and smiled. "Perhaps he thought your injury warranted something special this morning."

"She's not supposed to be drinking coffee yet," McGee tried to explain.

Abby wasn't ready to move on yet. The first topic had too much potential. "I once had this really horrible date…he took me to the opera."

"What's wrong with the opera?" Ziva asked, scrunching her eyebrows together.

"Nothing, but this was an opera put on by sixth graders at a performing arts school. His little sister was in it."

"So was it like, kill the wabbit?" Tony looked at her for some sign of recognition. She shook her head. He sang, "Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit…"

"Isn't that 'Ride of the Valkyries'?" McGee interrupted.

"Not on Bugs Bunny."

Abby drew Tony's attention by poking him in the shoulder. "Do we have time to hear about your worst date ever, or will it take too long? Remember, we've only got half an hour before we learn to communicate so efficiently we'll never have conversations like this again."

"We could talk about me…or we could hear a story that most likely involves broken bones." He jumped out of his chair and bounded across the bullpen. "Ziva! Tell us about your worst date ever." She stood and leaned toward him, saying something Abby couldn't quite make out.

McGee whispered to Abby, "Give it a month or two and she'll have a good one about him."

She laughed and encouraged, "Come on, Ziva. Everybody's got at least one dating horror story."

Tony spoke up before she could answer, "But whatever it is, I bet Gibbs could top it. What, three ex-wives and you think he _doesn't_ have something worse?"

Abby raised her eyes to the catwalk, ensuring it was clear before she asked, "Hey, why's he keep bringing you guys coffee…and warm milk, apparently? I mean, the Caf-Pows are a given, but he just started this thing, right?"

"He's been doing it since Ziva…well the past few weeks," McGee finished nervously.

"That's it." Ziva groaned in exasperation. "From now on, just say it. I got shot. But I'm fine now, so we don't have to toe tap around it."

Tony smiled. "Tiptoe. You tiptoe around sensitive issues. Well, maybe not _you_, but most people."

McGee poked Abby hard in the ribs to call her attention to Tony's hand, slipping around Ziva's waist. He'd withdrawn it almost immediately, but it had definitely been there. Abby whispered, "Too bad we're not having sexual harassment training today."


	4. Chapter 4

The door of Director Shepard's office slammed against the wall as she threw it open, causing Cynthia to jump. "Where is Officer David?"

Cynthia glanced at her blotter. "Probably in the training downstairs with everybody else."

"I want her up here. Now."

"I'll go get her," Shepard had yanked the door shut before Cynthia finished, "myself."

She rushed downstairs to the meeting room. The lights were off to accommodate a projector, currently displaying some sort of pie chart on the oversize white screen. Cynthia squinted into the darkness, feeling and apologizing her way through the room. She finally made her way to the rear on the advice of someone from legal. The entire major case team was lined up against the back wall, along with Abby Sciuto and Dr. Mallard. None of them were paying attention. Officer David was actually snoring with her head on a sleeping Agent DiNozzo's shoulder.

Cynthia couldn't get close enough to wake her, so she tapped Agent McGee's arm. "The Director needs to see Officer David. Could you get her?"

He looked at her with glazed eyes for a moment before turning to Abby Sciuto. "Abby, the Director needs to see Ziva."

"What, are we playing telephone now?"

"No, just get Ziva."

She turned to Dr. Mallard and whispered loudly, "The Director needs to see Ziva, bubblegum, math book."

"Of course." He turned and shook Officer David's arm. "Ziva. Ziva!" Several people in the next row turned to look at them. "Ziva, wake…"

"What?!" she shouted.

The speaker at the front of the room paused for a moment. "Is there a question?" When he was greeted by silence he droned on.

Cynthia leaned over Agent McGee and waved her hand. "Officer David? The Director needs to see you."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

She grinned triumphantly at Agent DiNozzo. "Have fun."

He pointed to himself and asked, "Do you think she wants to see me too?"

Cynthia shook her head. "She didn't mention you, Agent DiNozzo."

He slouched in his seat, looking jealously after Officer David, already disappearing out the back door. Cynthia caught her walking down the hallway. "Any idea what this is about?"

"No, but Director Shepard didn't seem pleased when she asked for you."

Officer David didn't show any surprise. "Do you know who she was on the phone with before she decided to rescue me from that seminar?"

"A teleconference with Deputy Director Asher. I didn't catch which agency."

She nodded, but provided no further information. As they went up the stairs, she said, "The plant you gave me is doing quite well. Thank you again for it."

"Oh, of course, Officer David…"

"Cynthia, it's Ziva."

"Oh, right, Ziva." Cynthia still felt uncomfortable. "You're very welcome."

"I don't normally do well with houseplants, but I think Tony has been watering it."

"Oh." She paused, unsure of how to proceed. She was curious, but she also liked being alive, and if rumors were to be believed…no, she was too curious. "Are you and he…?"

Officer David…_Ziva_ smiled. "We're keeping it out of the office."

Cynthia smiled back and nodded. "Of course." They had arrived in the Director's anteroom. "Good luck."

* * *

Ziva took a deep breath and stepped into the office without knocking. She'd been mentally preparing for this conversation since speaking with Officer Bashan. Jen was sitting on the edge of her desk, arms tightly crossed over her chest. "Shut the door."

She pulled it closed, listening for the click before assuming her most polite demeanor. "What can I do for you, Director?"

"Cut the Director bullshit, Ziva. How long have you known Moussad was recalling you?"

She stalled. She needed to figure out what Jen knew. Volunteering information was a mistake she couldn't afford to make. "Only temporarily. They need my expertise on a particular case."

Jen wasn't thrown off her original question. Her voice was slow and measured. "How long have you known?"

"I was briefed about the situation while still in the hospital."

"Of course you were." Jen sighed and moved to sit in one of the chairs at her conference table, inviting Ziva to do the same. "I knew if we had something, Moussad had to have twice as much." Ziva waited silently. Silence meant agreement, and Jen would be more inclined to share things she assumed Ziva already knew. She didn't disappoint. "When I got the call that you'd been shot, I was in a meeting with Undersecretary of Defense Roberts and Director Fitzgerald of the CIA. We were discussing a sudden upswing in chatter about the Russian arms market. I don't suppose you know anything about it?"

Ziva shrugged, selecting her words carefully. "Even if I did, I couldn't tell you."

"I know. I just thought that you might have some idea why the Molot kept coming up. I was under the impression that the leadership of that particular organization had been neutralized."

"Perhaps they've been reestablished under someone else's control, someone who wants to use the influence once carried by the name. I'm only speaking hypothetically, you understand."

"Well, even hypothetically, that's not what the CIA thinks."

"Oh?" Ziva systematically shut down every emotion. No surprise, no anger, no excitement could penetrate her impassive mask of complete detachment. The mission started now.

Jen went straight to the point. "They think the boss is back."

"Do they?"

"They don't have any proof yet, so it's all speculation and coincidence. And there _was_ a report from a trusted source that he was confirmed dead."

"Ask what you want to ask."

She leaned forward in her chair. "Did you kill Dmitri Tushkevich?"

"You know I didn't, Jen. Grigory Selfin put the bullet through his heart." She pointed to her chest, just to the left of her sternum. "Right here. I have a clear memory of the event, as I was sleeping next to Dmitri at the time. It gave me an excellent excuse to kill Grigory, which led to the power struggle that brought down the entire organization. With our assistance, as I'm sure you remember."

"Yes. But you're sure he's dead? I mean absolutely, without a doubt sure?"

Ziva didn't blink. "Yes."

"Good." Jen relaxed back into her chair. "And no one in the Molot knows you're the one who set up Selfin to kill Tushkevich?"

"Don't ask anymore questions I can't answer, Jen."

"I just want to know that you'll be safe while you're away from us. I'd hate to have to give Gibbs another new team member."

Ziva smiled, sensing the interrogation had ended. "I'll be back as soon as possible."

"If you need anything while you're under…"

"Moussad will contact you if it becomes necessary."

"That reminds me – Deputy Director Asher had a message for you." She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. "He insisted that the wording be precise. 'The Director has a meeting with the Princess at noon.' I never knew your father calls you 'princess.'"

"He doesn't." Ziva filed the information away for later. "Did Asher tell you when I'll be leaving?"

"Twelve days."

"Banning anything unexpected."

"Barring," Jen corrected. "But you know that. I thought you only pulled that 'I don't know English' game with Tony."

"Only when it's intentional. On occasion I make an honest mistake."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"The same thing I'm going to tell everybody else. Nothing."

She smiled. "Then I guess you should get back to your communications seminar."

"Oh, thank you. And Jen…"

"What conversation? All I remember is a misunderstanding regarding the payment of your hospital bill, which we resolved easily."

"Exactly."


	5. Chapter 5

McGee watched Tony and Ziva carefully. Things were different between them again. For the first week Ziva had been back, the flirting and touching had been almost constant. In the past four days, there hadn't been much unnecessary contact, but the staring had reached an all time high. It had been easy to figure out the cause for the change – they'd slept together. Finally.

Abby had confirmed the speculation by taking her life in her hands. She'd walked up to Ziva's desk on Monday morning, jerked her head in Tony's direction and said, "Is he as good as he wants us all to believe he is?"

Involuntarily, McGee had been reaching for his weapon when Ziva had leaned toward Abby and softly replied, "Better."

For most of the office, that had been enough. Everybody was on the lookout for suspicious conduct, but as long as Gibbs found the pair's behavior tolerable, it was hard for anyone else to find anything amiss. The furor that had quietly risen over the revelation on Monday had died out by Tuesday afternoon. Now that it was Thursday, Tony and Ziva together had become an accepted fact, no longer interesting if they continued being discreet. It had been building for so long that the actual consummation had proved disappointing. For anyone not directly involved, McGee could only assume. Tony and Ziva certainly seemed happy enough.

Now they were staring again. He'd always found it slightly disconcerting, but ever since Abby had described it as 'eye sex,' it had made McGee indescribably uncomfortable. The lack of cases in the field had meant a lot of awkward observation on his part. He didn't want to watch; he just didn't have anything else to do. The unintentional voyeurism was starting to make him feel a little dirty. He stood and buttoned his jacket. "I'm going down to the lab to see if I can help Abby with…anything."

"Sure, Probie. Find out if she wants anything for lunch. We're gonna make a run in an hour or so." Tony winked at Ziva. McGee made a mental note not to ask to go with them. Or ride in whichever car they took before it had been cleaned.

He walked down the hall to the elevator. It had only been a week. _Less_ than a week. They'd settle down soon enough. Not that it could be soon enough for McGee. He pressed the button for the lab's floor and leaned against the handrail. It was wet and sticky on the left side. He sighed with annoyance and looked at his hand. Then he screamed.

The music in the lab was at a reasonable volume as McGee ran in. "Do you have any threes?" Ducky asked.

"Go fish." Abby replied.

"Abby?" McGee tried not to sound panicked.

"What? We got bored with every other card game."

"Abby?" Still not panicked.

"I can deal you in on the next hand."

"Abby!!" Panic could only be restrained for so long.

She finally turned to look at him, her eyes drawn to his outstretched hand. "Oh, McGee! I know things around here are boring, but…gross!"

His entire body shook as he fought to maintain his composure. "It's not mine."

Her eyes widened in amusement. "Did you just come out of the elevator or the closet?"

"This isn't funny, Abby!" he shouted, losing all patience. "I was in the elevator on the way down here and I leaned my hand on the railing and…just take a damn sample so I can wash it off!"

"Oh!" She was daubing a q-tip in the whitish substance. "Sex in the elevator would certainly refresh the recently dried up rumor mill."

"Yeah, well, once you confirm it with a DNA test I'm going straight to Gibbs."

"Yeah, Tattletale McGee. _That_ wouldn't get you killed. It's gonna take a few hours to process this, so why don't you just sit down and relax in the meantime."

"Not until I've scrubbed off at least three layers of skin."

"I hope you mean cellular layers of epidermis."

"No, I mean until it bleeds, Ducky." McGee allowed the hot water to rinse every visible stain from his hand before pouring an overly generous amount of antibacterial soap into it. When the suds had fully dissipated he repeated the process. The steaming water combined with the scrubbing was turning his hand a bright shade of red.

"Don't you think your overreacting a bit?"

"No!" McGee turned to Ducky, his hand dripping onto the floor. "I have to sit there everyday and pretend I don't see what's going on between them, just like I've had to sit there since God knows when watching them go back and forth while they act like it's not something they should be keeping to themselves because they think I don't get it!"

Abby tossed him a towel. "So are you more angry or jealous, Timmy?"

"Jealous? Why would I be jealous?"

"Tony and Ziva have been on a collision course since she got here. She may have tossed you a bone every so often, no pun intended, but she's only ever flirted seriously with Tony."

"But I'm not attracted to Ziva. What difference does it make?" He went back to the sink. One more round with the soap couldn't hurt.

Abby sighed loudly. "Ducky, speaking as a man, would you say Ziva is hot?"

"Oh, indeed. A little young for me, and probably a bit too energetic, but if I were…"

She interrupted, "Thanks, Ducky, but I was scarred enough when McGee came in waving his elevator prize around." She pulled McGee away from the sink, turning off the water. "My point is, even if you aren't really attracted to Ziva, you're jealous because she's still a hot chick who's throwing herself all over one of your peers while treating you like a friend and co-worker."

"No, I'm angry because both of them treat me like a naïve little kid who can't see what's happening right in front of his face."

"You really need a girlfriend, McGee."

"Gee, thanks Abby." He grudgingly took the chair Ducky offered. "I'm still going to Gibbs the second we get those test results. At the very least, they've created an unsanitary condition in a public area."

"You know, it's possible that someone else made the, uh, contribution in the elevator."

Abby turned so quickly she squirted the contents of her micropipette on the floor. "Ducky, we've been playing a card game for children and you've been sitting on something juicy?"

"Since I know I'm not wearing a pair of pants with a word across my bum, I can assume your speaking metaphorically?"

"Stop stalling and make with the dirt, Duck-man."

"It's just a sneaking suspicion I have about Mr. Palmer."

"Whoa, you think Jimmy took it upon himself to christen the elevator?"

"I don't think he was in there alone, if that's what you mean, Abigail."

McGee stared at his hand, wondering if it would be overkill to wash it again. "Somehow that doesn't make me feel better."

Abby squinted at the contents of a test tube. "Cheer up, Timmy. You can't get pregnant from a toilet seat _or_ an elevator railing."


	6. Chapter 6

Ziva checked through her small carry-on bag, open on her bed. She had enough clothing for five days. It was unlikely she would need more; contact was almost assured within that window. Given her status in the Molot, her wardrobe for the ensuing interval would be getting a necessary upgrade. Moussad was assembling three trunks of French and Italian designers in preparation for her arrival in Tel Aviv. She smiled in spite of herself. _She_ wouldn't exactly be the one arriving in Tel Aviv.

She opened the sliding door of the closet, revealing a practical collection of casual clothing and a small selection of higher end items. Most of her shoes formed neat rows on the closet floor, arranged on top of and around a small home safe. That wasn't what she needed at the moment. She pushed the clothes hanging on the rod aside and reached back, using her fingertips to feel for the nearly invisible crease in the false rear wall. This had been one of the first things she'd done after moving into her new apartment. She'd managed to install her safe and weapons locker in a concealed if awkward location in only three hours. It didn't have to be readily accessible; she had enough weapons hidden throughout the apartment.

Her fingernails caught the edge of the drywall and she gently pulled it free, removing the entire reinforced panel. Hooked to the interior wall was an assortment of firearms – a variety of internationally manufactured handguns, three sizes of UZIs, and even a Galil AR assault rifle, a gift from her father two birthdays ago. She hadn't received anything on her last birthday, not even a phone call. Ammunition for all the weapons was stacked on top of her second safe, nestled tightly between the joists in the wall. She crouched and pressed her index finger against the sensor, waiting patiently as the bolts withdrew.

Everything on the bottom shelf was authentic. She removed enough currency for her travel needs and emergencies: 1000 US dollars, 5000 sheqalim, 2000 euro. She would have access to almost unlimited funds if all went according to plan.

She picked up the stack of passports from the top shelf of the safe. All were authentic, strictly speaking. They were real passports officially obtained from the issuing countries. It was the information that was counterfeit.

She'd used the same picture for almost all of the documents. She leafed through them, remembering some of the things they'd allowed her to accomplish.

Leila Sharif (Egypt) and Leila Sharif (Syria). No self-respecting Moussad officer would travel without at least one Arabic identity. She placed the Syrian passport back in the safe. Leila Sharif (Egypt) hadn't done much traveling lately.

Several European passports could be useful; that was where she was likely to spend most of the mission. From a thick sheaf she selected Concetta Gioconda (Italy), Nara Gerardos (Greece), Giselle Saint-Germain (France), and Ellen Dean (United Kingdom). The last was her favorite alias, one of the few she'd handpicked. Asta Olsen (Sweden) went back in the safe. That one always made her laugh. She'd never even tried to use it.

The last passport was the one she'd really been seeking. Elizaveta Fyodorvna Tverskaya (Russia). She had chosen that one, too. She'd liked the literary connection, although she couldn't remember how things had turned out for Betsy. She never had time to reread anything that didn't have a direct connection to work. Except _Moby Dick_, of course. She'd requested Tasha Tego for her US passport, but willingly accepted the less harpooneer-like and less conspicuous Rachel Cohen. She wouldn't need that one either.

Her only truly authentic passport would be remaining in her unconcealed safe, the one on the floor of the actual closet. Officially, Ziva David (Israel) was staying in the United States.

She closed the safe. If anyone forced it while she was gone, they wouldn't find anything useful. It wouldn't be too much trouble for her to get new documents if the need arose when she returned. She was smart enough to hide sensitive information more prudently. Any information the CIA would want she had committed to memory.

A knock on the door echoed through the apartment as she hefted the panel back into place. She confirmed its sure placement before rearranging the clothes in front of it. She dropped the documents and currency into her suitcase, zipping it shut and placing it in the closet. It could all wait until Monday. She wanted one last weekend for herself here. There was no way of predicting how things would change after…she went to answer the persistent knocking at the door.

A quick look through the peephole caused her to shake her head. She opened the door. "You have a key for a reason."

Tony stepped inside, pressing her against the door, which loudly banged the wall of the front hallway, as he kissed her. "Yeah…but I didn't…want to risk…mmm…surprising you."

She wove her fingers into the short hair on the back of his head as he moved down her neck. "You _are_ almost an hour early. I've barely started dinner yet."

"I'm not hungry right now. Not for dinner, anyway." He nipped her collarbone, drawing a startled squeak from her. "That's a good start. We can work our way up to the puma and mountain lion noises."

"Those are both the same animal." She shivered as his hands, cold from being outside, slid under her shirt and up her back.

"Whatever." His mouth covered hers again as she pressed her hips tightly against his.

Before her hands found his zipper, giggles from the hall drew Ziva's attention. She pushed Tony off her and slammed the door in the faces of two preteen girls from a few doors down. "Great. We can look forward to a visit from their mother in the next five minutes."

He walked into the living room, tossed his coat on a chair and plopped down on the couch. "No idea why you live in a building with children and families."

"I was here first." She sat next to him and pulled his obliging arm around her shoulders. "They moved in a couple of months ago. The woman told me all about her messy divorce and custody battle in the elevator one day."

He arched his back slightly as he unclipped his gun and placed it on the end table. "Is that the trashy blonde with the bad roots?"

"Yeah."

"She was hitting on me in the elevator last week. I think she may have been a little drunk." He grinned. "She told me she wasn't a tramp like the woman who lived in _this_ apartment."

She fiddled with his fingers. "She did not say that."

"Maybe not in so many words. You could still slap her around a little, though."

She playfully swatted his arm as a sharp rap sounded against the door. "This is your fault. You go deal with her." Neither moved as the tapping continued. He knew she would get annoyed first. She poked him in the ribs as she stood and walked to the door, grabbing her badge on a whim and clipping it to the front pocket of her jeans. Clicking the bolt and opening the door, she asked, "What can I do for you Ms. Watson?"

"Don't play coy with me, Miss David."

Ziva grimaced. She had grown used to making the correction, but it still grated. "It's Da-veed."

"Oh, _whatever_. You foreigners come to this country and you think you own the place and can do whatever you want to whoever, wherever and whenever. Well, honey, this is _America_, and we have a certain code of morals that you don't get to disrespect while _I'm_ around. I've got a right to defend basic decency, especially where my children are involved." The woman was mildly inebriated. "Did you know I could call the police and have you arrested for indecent exposure? No…wait…oh, committing a lewd act in public?"

"And you think they wouldn't prosecute you for public intoxication?"

"Who're they gonna believe, a good, clean, red-blooded American citizen or some international hussy? They'll probably have _you_ on a plane back to wherever you came from before you can say 'terrorist.' You think this is funny? So help me I'll smack that smile right off your face!"

"And then I'll arrest you for striking a federal officer." Ziva let the words sink in.

The woman swayed. "You're a…"

She tapped a finger against her badge. "Yes."

The woman stared at the badge for a full minute before saying, "I am so, so sorry. I, um, I'll just be going now. You have a pleasant evening. Ma'am." She stumbled slightly as she made her way down the hall.

Tony's arms encircled her waist as Ziva closed and locked the door. "No slapping?"

She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "The night is still young." He smelled like coffee and cologne. "Want me to make dinner?"

"I was thinking we could order in." His hands roamed over her back as his tongue flicked against her throat.

"But the mashed potatoes and vegetables are already done. And I'm making steak. Filet mignon, in fact."

All his actions suddenly ceased. "Really?"

"Mm hmm."

"Well, I can't let that go to waste." He followed her into the kitchen. "What charge was that drunk lady threatening you with?"

"Committing a lewd act in public, I think?"

"Good thing she didn't see us in Observation a few days ago."

She smiled. She'd tried to pull him into Interrogation, but the idea that someone could be watching from behind the two-way mirror had proved too daunting. He hadn't disappointed once he'd been sure they were alone. Aside from making the kitchen feel too warm, the memory set off another flash. "Did you find out who that memo was about?"

He pushed himself up onto the counter. "Oh, you are not gonna believe this. Okay, so yesterday when McGee went down to the lab before lunch? He got another man's Navy SEALs on him when he leaned on the elevator railing."

"Well that definitely wasn't us."

"I know, the elevator was Monday, but you'll never guess who it was. Abby ran the DNA and got a hit." He paused. "Wanna know who?"

She was focused on transferring the steaks from the bag where they'd been marinating to the broiling pan. She used a large fork rather than her hands. Almost nothing she was capable of doing to a human body fazed her, but touching cold, raw meat? That had always been too much. She exhaled softly as she placed the pan in the oven before turning and to look at Tony expectantly. "So who was it?"

He jumped off the counter, landing lightly on his feet. "Jimmy Palmer. Ducky and the Director had a chat with him this morning and he wouldn't give up a name, so Jenny sent out the general memo about the inadmissible nature of sex in the workplace to flush out the gremlin's groupie. Wanna know who he was with?" He nodded and grinned suggestively.

"Agent Lee?"

Tony's expression went blank. "Who told you?"

"What, you think I can't figure these things out on my own?" She tugged him closer by his belt loops and untucked his shirt. His skin felt warm and soft to the touch. Her fingers toyed with the button on his pants. "When I was in the hospital they came to visit me together. They tried to tell me they'd bumped into each other in the hall, but…" she trailed off. "I'm just glad they're the ones who got caught."

Their foreheads met and his hands rested on her hips. "Because you're so shy you couldn't handle the shame?"

She rubbed her nose against his. "No, it's just…did you see Gibbs' face when he read that memo? He was working his way up to murdering both of us when McGee told him about the DNA test."

"That reminds me, he says he's sorry."

"Gibbs?"

"McGee. Apparently Abby and Ducky had to talk him out of going straight to Gibbs when discovered the case of the contaminated elevator. Probie felt guilty for assuming it was us. We should probably make a better effort of keeping it out of the office from now on."

Ziva kissed Tony gently before turning away. "I think the steaks are ready."


	7. Chapter 7

Tony woke slowly. His eyelids felt incredibly heavy. He made a special effort to open them and look at his watch. Just after 5 AM. He could stay in bed for another hour at least. He needed the rest before going to work after the weekend he'd just spent with Ziva. In spite of his considerable experience, he'd never been with anyone quite like her. Absolutely beautiful. Unnaturally flexible. Completely insatiable.

He slid his hand across the mattress, encountering nothing as he reached the edge. The sheets were still warm. He yawned and stretched. He could wait for her to come back from the bathroom. Or the kitchen. Maybe she was making him breakfast. Ooh, breakfast in bed. He sat up quickly and tested the air, but couldn't smell anything cooking. He could really go for some bacon and eggs. Wait, she wouldn't have bacon. Or sausage. He could always run out and ask for pancakes. He yawned again. Whatever she made would be fine.

He rolled over to go back to sleep, but found that he was no longer drowsy. He threw the covers back and hustled into the bathroom, ignoring the early morning chill in the bedroom of the familiar apartment that wasn't his own. As he brushed his teeth, he considered taking a shower. That was really more of a two-person activity, wasn't it?

He grinned at himself in the mirror, surveying his appearance. The bags under his eyes weren't as deep as he'd feared. The exhaustion in his body was veiled by a distinct glint in his eyes. A circular bruise stood out on his right deltoid. He turned and looked over his shoulder to examine his back. The scratching he could deal with, but the biting would not be a regular occurrence. He didn't even know what he'd done to get her that excited. He also had multiple small red marks on his upper torso. He hoped she had make-up to cover the ones on his neck. Gibbs would not be pleased if he saw those.

Tony decided to take a detour on his way back to bed to check on what Ziva was making for breakfast. He regretted not grabbing the blanket off the bed as he walked down the hall toward the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around his naked body. "Babe, I hope you're making something high in protein and carbs, because…" he stopped abruptly. No one was in the kitchen. He poked his head into the living room. "Ziva?"

A pit formed in his stomach. It wasn't a huge apartment; there were only so many places she could be, and she wasn't in any of them. Her badge sat on the table in the front hallway where she'd put it on Friday night. He decided she must have run to the market to pick up some milk, or eggs, or the paper, or _anything_. He walked back to the bedroom, convinced that everything would be fine if he simply climbed into her bed and slept for five more minutes. This was probably a dream.

Cold wasn't so pervasive in dreams. He saw something he hadn't noticed earlier when he reentered the bedroom – an envelope on her pillow. Why hadn't he seen that before? He took a small sheet of paper from it, sat on the bed and read,

_Tony –_

_By the time you read this, I'll most likely be in the air. A letter is the coward's way out, but I knew I couldn't face you this morning. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you anything before I left. Jen was the only one authorized to know in advance that I've been temporarily recalled by Moussad._

_I hope this past weekend was enough of a goodbye. Our timing certainly didn't work out for the best, but we'll make up for it when I get back, if you want to, of course._

_And please know that, if I don't come back, it won't be because I didn't want to._

_Ziva._

He read it three times before it sank in. She was gone? There was a chance she wasn't coming back? He suddenly noticed the envelope felt heavy. He tipped it upside down. Her necklace glowed in the sunlight pouring over the sheets, its delicate gold chain pooled around the Star of David. He'd worn it for almost three weeks. He secured it around his neck again before taking a shower. Alone.

An hour later, he pulled into the parking lot of NCIS. Flurries swirled around him in a gusting wind as he sprinted into the building. He rode the elevator straight to the top floor. Gibbs was already in the Director's office when he rushed in over Cynthia's objections. "Where is she?"

"I can't be sure, Tony." Jenny didn't seem surprised by his appearance. She indicated a chair at her conference table. "As I was just telling Agent Gibbs, Moussad isn't exactly known for its forthcoming spirit."

He reluctantly took a seat. "But you must know something?"

Her expression spoke volumes. She had facts. She had reliable suppositions. She had wild stabs in the dark. She wouldn't share any of them. "I'm sorry, Tony."

He had no options. He begged, "Please."

She didn't answer. He didn't pay attention to the rest of the meeting. Gibbs and Jenny argued back and forth over the value of adding a new team member temporarily. It was all smoke and mirrors. Ziva was gone and he wasn't allowed to know why. He didn't hear a single word until Gibbs grabbed his arm. "Let's go, DiNozzo."

Jenny's sympathetic look as he left her office had to be a product of his imagination.

He didn't realize he was sitting at his desk. McGee called his name, "Tony. Hey, Tony!"

He looked up. "Huh?"

"She hasn't been through customs yet. She's still in the country. We flagged her passport, so we'll know when she leaves and where she goes."

"What?" The room seemed foggy. An untouched cup of coffee sat on the desk in front of him.

"Ziva. When she leaves the US, we'll get an alert and we'll track her."

"Oh. Good." He had a gloomy feeling that she was already out of his reach, maybe forever. The chain around his neck felt very tight. It may have just been the knot in his throat.


	8. Chapter 8

A/n: Someone please explain to me why Microsoft Word knows 'micropipette,' 'filet mignon' and 'Knesset,' but given a word like 'untucked,' it can only shrug and give me the red squiggle. Sigh. Use your imagination to translate all the dialogue in this chapter to Hebrew, then back to English so you can read it.

* * *

Ziva tried to look inconspicuous in jeans as she walked through the hallways of Moussad on her way to the Director's office. Everyone was dressed for either high tea at Buckingham Palace or an invasion of Lebanon; neither would have surprised her. She pulled at the hem of her black t-shirt, tugging it down where it kept riding up near the holster clipped to her belt. The Jericho 941 that had been delivered to her hotel room the previous night with a confirmation of her appointment felt heavier than the SIG-Sauer she'd grown used to carrying at NCIS.

The pistol had been a welcome arrival. She'd chosen to travel unarmed to eliminate any potential obstacles going through customs. A Moussad officer would have no problem boarding an El Al plane discreetly armed to the teeth as part of the standard security team; a Russian national was another matter entirely. Her flight and trip to her hotel had been uneventful. Sleeping alone for the first time in two weeks, however, had been more problematic than she'd expected. Not even the gun under her pillow had proved as comforting as his warm body next to her.

She pushed all thoughts not related to her present situation out of her mind. She presented her identification to a guard at the final checkpoint before she came to the corridor where the high-security offices of the upper echelon administrators were located. The guard's eyes passed from Ziva to her ID and back again. "David? Any relation to…"

"No." She brushed past him and continued up a half-flight of stairs. The Director's office was at the very end of the hall. She had visited it only once before, during the tenure of the previous Director. She'd just arrived from the US on that occasion as well. She passed the office she had been more accustomed to visiting without a glance, though she could feel the eyes of the unfamiliar secretary following her down the passage.

A set of heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall opened into a large, opulent waiting room. Several security-types in suits stood outside the closed door of the Director's office. They watched Ziva carefully as she nodded to the receptionist and sat in one of the large leather chairs. Hannah knew who she was, and Ziva didn't feel like announcing herself to the strangers in the room. She picked the previous evening's _Le Monde_ from the selection of newspapers on the table in front of her; she'd already read the morning editions of _Yedioth Ahronoth, Washington Post_ and _The Times_ from London while forcing herself to eat breakfast at the hotel.

She was scanning an article about the current state of the old Parisian sewers when the door of the office opened and two men emerged. "I'm not sure the Knesset will be open to allocating the funds, but I will see what I can do. Have a pleasant afternoon, David."

"Shalom, sir."

"Shalom."

Ziva stood as the man walked toward the exit, sparing a sneer and a derisive grunt for her as he passed. He probably assumed she was there for some kind of disciplinary action. She'd yet to encounter an elected official that didn't disappoint in person.

Director David waited until the outer doors had closed before he waved her into his spacious office. "Hannah, see that we're not interrupted."

"Yes, Director."

He closed the door and walked to a side table, leaving Ziva standing in the middle of the room. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Yes, please."

Ice tinkled against two glasses. "Sit where you like."

She hesitated. He was allowing her to dictate the tone of the meeting. If she chose the sitting area to the right, it would be more casual, conversational. If she chose the conference table, it would be all business. If she chose the chair directly in front of his desk, it would be…unacceptable. She decided on a fourth option. She stood with her arms crossed waiting for him to finish pouring.

He didn't seem surprised when he turned and saw her still standing. He indicated the sitting area on the far side of the room. She settled into the chair, leaving the couch to him. He passed her a glass as he sat. It felt cold in her hand. The liquid had a familiar, sweet smell. She took a small sip. "I've never known you to drink Southern Comfort."

"I've acquired a taste for it of late. I find it more forgiving than Scotch." They sat in silence for a few moments. "You seem to have recovered quite well."

"Yes. Michael told me you sent your best."

"I should have called you."

"You're busy. I understand. I appreciate you squeezing me in right after the Prime Minister." She took another sip of her drink, allowing the alcohol to provide the warmth she was seeking.

"Ziva…" He seemed at a loss for words. She knew he wouldn't apologize. "I am glad to see you well. I am glad to see you at all, in fact."

"Even under these circumstances?"

"Can you think of anything else that would bring us together?" He allowed her to ponder his point for a moment before getting to business. "Has Tushkevich tried to contact you yet?"

"No. When he wants to let me know he's back, I expect he'll access a joint account. The big ones are in the Caymans and Switzerland and I've been checking them hourly. No activity."

"Focus on the Swiss ones. All the latest intelligence places him in Europe."

He didn't need to tell her that. Dmitri would open the safe deposit box in Zurich and she would go to him. "Has anyone seen him yet?"

"None of our people have, and the Americans have only suspicions at this point. We think he's traveling on the same set of aliases you gave us four years ago. Richard Moby of the United Kingdom entered Switzerland yesterday evening and checked into Hotel Eden Au Lac in Zurich."

She smiled; Dmitri had found the name ridiculous, but she'd insisted. She wanted her white whale to be easily traceable. "He'll definitely be contacting me. I should leave as soon as possible."

"Elizaveta Tverskaya leaves Israel tonight on a flight to Athens, and connects to Zurich."

"That's a short connection. Switzerland still doesn't allow El Al flights?"

"No. They object to the countermeasures the planes are equipped with." He shook his head. "Neutrality, bah."

"I trust all the proper arrangements have been made."

"Your clothes and weapons are packed. Your luggage will not be searched. You have a room at the Schweizerhof through the end of next week. If you haven't made contact by then, we'll assume he's not going to contact you and implement a new strategy."

"He'll make contact."

"Your confidence is very reassuring. You'll be needing this." He produced a black velvet box from his inner coat pocket. She had only worn the diamond for a month, turning it over to Moussad along with almost half the assets of the Molot once her mission had ended. She had wondered if he would really hold onto it for her. "I have often contemplated if you'll ever be getting a real one."

She slid the platinum band past her knuckle. It felt loose. "You think this isn't a real diamond?"

"I meant a real engagement ring."

"I may still marry Dmitri."

"You know what I'm referring to."

She wasn't in the mood to expand the discussion beyond business. "No. I don't."

He examined her critically. "Tell me about Anthony DiNozzo."

"I think any discussion of marriage is a little premature. You have access to the dossiers I prepared for Ari." They both looked away at the mention of his name.

"We both know that is not what I am asking."

"Asking? It sounded like an order to me."

"Can't we speak for just a few minutes as father and daughter? I want to know what kind of man you are involved with. Is he respectful? Is he kind to you? Does he treat you like you deserve?"

"Why don't you just ask your spies?" She finished her drink in a final swallow, feeling the liquor burn all the way to her stomach.

"I am asking _you_." He placed a hand on her knee. It was the first physical contact they'd had in over a year. "Ever since your brother's death, you have been acting like _I_ am the traitor."

Her breathing became very shallow. "I have to go. I have a flight to catch and Dmitri will probably be expecting me." She stood to leave, but something held her back. "Does anyone else know…?"

He cut her off. "I have told no one. We are the only two people in the intelligence community who know the truth."

"Good. And Shepard?"

"I will contact her if the need arises." He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "Take care, my child."

"Shalom, father."

"Shalom, Ziva."


	9. Chapter 9

A man attired in an impeccably tailored gray wool suit stood just inside the outer door of the main branch of Credit Suisse. Senior Manager Franz Heller's sharp eyes scanned the street outside for the black BMW 7 series he'd been told to expect. He would normally allow one of his many assistants to escort clients from their vehicles to private viewing rooms, but there were some clients one simply could not fail to acknowledge, even when their needs did not involve the numbered accounts containing vast sums protected by his bank.

A lifetime of experience had taught Heller to distinguish between the people who thought their wealth and power made them dangerous and the people whose wealth and power had been accrued because they were, in fact, dangerous. The former rarely exceeded belligerence when provoked; the latter considered violence an acceptable first option. The client he was meeting today fell into that group. Her driver had called an hour before to inform Heller that she would require access to her safety deposit box, a straightforward request in and of itself. The strange thing was that the box had been opened by its other holder mere minutes before the call had come. Curiosity alone was not enough to provoke Heller into asking questions. He knew the consequences would be unfortunate, both for his bank and him personally.

The tires of a black BMW squealed as it braked, nearly coming onto the curb in front of the bank. Heller rushed through the doors onto the sidewalk. He caught the handle of the rear door before the driver, who looked more like a bodyguard, had rounded the back. The car door was unusually heavy; a sure sign that it was the exclusive high security model, favored by diplomats and…people like the woman he now offered his hand to. "Fräulein Tverskaya, willkommen to Zurich. I trust your trip has been agreeable?" He spoke English as a matter of form; the call he had received earlier had been conducted in English.

The woman turned her head to survey her surroundings from behind large, dark sunglasses. Her long, dark hair fluttered in the brisk breeze, obscuring her face further. She wore a long black coat that would have swept the ground if not for the additional three inches of height afforded by her heels. She frowned slightly as she pulled her hand out of his. "The trip was satisfactory. My stay in Zurich, however, has been dreadfully boring." Her accent was vaguely Russian, with hints of British English and possibly French. Heller had noticed the same inflections among many of the bank's truly international clients, a homogenized way of speaking that connected with many countries rather than just one. He often wondered if it were a natural or learned parlance.

He led her through the grand lobby of the bank, saying, "If you are seeking entertainment, I would be happy to obtain tickets to the opera or symphony…"

She stopped him with an indifferent wave that also served to display a large, sparkling diamond on her ring finger. "Do you think I have been sitting in my hotel room doing nothing for three days? Much as you would care to promote your city as a cultural Mecca, I would hardly consider traveling here if my interests were musical."

He swallowed the slight without changing his expression. "Of course. My apologies." He decided the less said, the better. He could normally cope gracefully with the haughtiness of the bank's clients, but she was making him unusually nervous.

His instincts proved right when the metal detectors unobtrusively built into the walls of the main archway leading into vaults chimed softly as they passed. The uniformed guard held his hands out, a handheld metal detector at the ready. "Please step to the side, Madame."

She cocked her head and pulled the collar of her tightly buttoned coat closer to her neck. "Is this really necessary?"

"Of course not, Fräulein," Heller assured, giving the guard an irritated glare. "Return to your post, young man."

The guard seemed unsure. "Sir, bank policy states…"

"She will not be searched," he stated definitively, motioning the aggrieved guard back to his station behind a small podium and leading the woman further into the bank. "Once again, my apologies."

She removed her sunglasses, revealing dark, sparkling eyes. He would not want to see anger flashing in such eyes. "Apologizing is a sign of weakness, as a friend of mine would say, although I can appreciate why you do it. I suppose that ninety-five percent of your job is keeping insufferable bitches such as myself happy." She smiled affably, tucking the glasses into her purse.

He couldn't decide whether she was joking or testing him. He said nothing, instead unlocking the solid door of a private viewing room. "If you will enter your account number at the station…"

"I know how the system works. I shouldn't be more than a few minutes. Thank you for your assistance, Herr Heller." She closed the heavy door with little effort. Heller walked to a waiting room down the hall, glad he would be able to escort her out shortly.

* * *

The conveyor belt hummed to life, filling the room with a comforting buzz of movement. The black plastic flaps at the belt's entry point to the room parted to allow a small metal box through the tiny aperture that led from the vaults. She removed the box from the belt before it had come to a stop. Placing it on the table and typing a code into the digital lock, she tapped her foot impatiently.

The lid popped open as the latch released. She looked into the shallow box, quickly assessing the contents. The last time she'd seen it, it had been occupied by a small fortune in jewelry and a sizable stack of 10,000 euro bundles. All of the diamonds were accounted for, but the cash was gone. She read the note that had been left as an exchange.

_Hotel Eden Au Lac, Utoquai 45, Room 311  
I will expect you._

She picked up another item she had not left in the box, a Walther P99 pistol that had been placed under the note. She checked the magazine – a full sixteen rounds. The butt of the gun was engraved with a monogram: _DAT_. She slipped the gun into her coat pocket, muttering, "As if I _needed_ proof."

She closed the box and was about to place it on the conveyor belt when she suddenly reconsidered. She reentered the code. The jewelry was all hers, and it had just been sitting in the vault. Dmitri would be disappointed if all she thought to take was the Walther. She selected a particularly ostentatious diamond necklace from Cartier, several bracelets, three cocktail rings and a Rolex watch. She glanced around the room before unbuttoning her coat just enough to put on the necklace. It felt cold against her bare skin. The other items went into her purse with the Jericho that had set off the metal detectors. Finally satisfied, she sent the nearly empty safety deposit box back into the vault.

She exited the bank after five further minutes of fawning from Heller. Surrounded by the fresh smell of new leather in rear seat of the BMW, she gave the address to her driver, adding, "Positive contact. My luggage is packed, so see that it's sent when I call for it. Don't expect anything further until the objective has been obtained."

He nodded in the rearview mirror. "Understood." They said nothing further until they arrived at the Hotel Eden Au Lac. He escorted her to the main desk, whispering, "Shalom," as he left. She knew it would be her last contact with her other life, indefinitely.

Raising her sunglasses to her forehead, she smiled as she approached the concierge and presented her passport. "I believe my companion arrived some days ago. Richard Moby, room 311?"

The man inspected her identification before entering a few keystrokes into his terminal. "Ah, yes, Fräulein Tverskaya. Herr Moby told us to expect you this afternoon." He handed her a key. "Shall I send a bellhop to your car for your things?"

"They'll be arriving later." She leaned over the desk and slipped a 100 euro note into the front pocket of his uniform suit jacket. "See that it's sent up when we order dinner."

He smiled in the manner of well-trained sycophants. "Yes, Fräulein. I'll see that it is done."

She walked to the elevator, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She looped the handles of her purse over her left wrist, loosely dangling her room key in that hand. Her right hand clutched the pistol in her coat pocket. She took a deep breath as she let herself into room 311.

A man sat at a table by the window, facing the door despite the view of the lake immediately behind him. His face was bathed in shadows. She raised her gun, eliciting a laugh from him. "I see you've found the present I left for you Mademoiselle Tverskaya. I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable if you were armed."

"Isn't that always the case?" She closed the door and placed her purse on the bureau, never allowing her aim to waver.

"Ah, but I am a sentimental man," he said, standing and crossing the room in several long strides. "That is the gun you used to shoot Grigory after he thought he put a bullet through my heart. You know, I never told you, but I felt your fingers on my chest, showing him exactly where to fire."

She lowered the Walther. "Well, you weren't terribly lucid the last time I saw you. Quite frankly, you should consider yourself lucky I didn't change my mind at the last moment and point here." She pressed the tips of her index and middle fingers between his eyebrows.

He laughed again, "I have missed you, Ziva."

"Three years, Mitya!" She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her, pressing her lips against his. Her gun fell to the floor.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, swinging her in a wide circle. "I apologize for delaying my return for so long, my princess. I trust you have not been too lonely in my absence?" He grinned roguishly, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, I didn't join the convent, if that's what you're asking."

"I am just curious to know if you found yourself a lover who could replace me."

She didn't answer immediately. "I'm not sure that my memory is strong enough to make a comparison. Perhaps you should remind me." She unbuttoned her coat and let it drop off her shoulders. She gave him a wicked smile as it slid to the floor.

His expression indicated that he was most appreciative. His hands wandered freely over her naked body as she unbuttoned his shirt painfully slowly. He gently ran his thumb over the fresh scar on her stomach. "Am I too late to kill whoever did this to you?"

"He got the same as the man that did this to you." She kissed the old scar on his left pectoral, just to the left of his sternum. Her fingers moved to his belt as he let his shirt fall to the floor.

He kissed a trail down her jaw, making his way back to her mouth. "My jet will be ready to leave at noon tomorrow. I thought we could go to the beach."

"Oh?" Her hands ran down his thighs as she helped him step out of his pants.

"The Côte d'Azur. Would you prefer Nice or Monte Carlo?"

She drew back and pouted. "Not Saint-Tropez?"

"Excellent choice. We'll buy a yacht and sail up the coast if we get bored. That only leaves us one problem."

"What?"

"What shall we do until noon tomorrow?"

She pushed him onto the bed, allowing him to pull her with him as he fell back. She sat on top of him and pressed her hands into his chest. "For one thing, we'll be ordering my luggage from the Schweizerhof. It's winter and I refuse to walk around Zurich in only a coat and heels any longer."

She let him roll their bodies so he was on top of her. He kissed her neck. "Perhaps a bigger diamond would keep you warmer?"

Kissing Dmitri didn't feel like the betrayal she'd feared it would. She pressed her hips against his eager body. "I can think of something else that will work just as well."


	10. Chapter 10

McGee scrolled through the phone records of Petty Officer Helen Burns, looking for any suspicious calls. Burns had been murdered in her apartment early the previous morning and her ex-husband, Theodore Piper, whereabouts unknown, was the prime suspect. Before her death, Burns had reported receiving a number of threatening phone calls from him, but all McGee could find were a series of non-repetitive payphone calls forming a seemingly random distribution in the DC area. He decided to crosscheck the locations with area businesses to see if the ex had been caught on any security cameras; outwardly meaningless evidence was always better than no evidence at all.

"Yeah, thanks for your help…no, you really have been very helpful…um, I don't, um, think my girlfriend would like that…okay, buh-bye." Tony sighed heavily as he hung up his phone and stared at the empty desk across from him. McGee had noticed him doing that a lot. Every time Tony got off the phone or made an inference, he would look at Ziva's desk expectantly. McGee had attempted but so far been unable to supply the question, gibe or misspoken phrase Tony was so clearly seeking.

She had been gone for two weeks and Tony was still sulking, though he'd been hiding it better, at least when Gibbs was around. He had gotten sick of Tony's pity party fairly quickly and ordered him to cheer up. His exact words had actually been, "DiNozzo, I'll stick my boot up your ass if you don't stop being so damn miserable," but coupled with the sympathetic expression Gibbs had been wearing at the time, McGee chose to trust the spirit rather than the letter of the statement. He found a depressed DiNozzo did tend to demoralize the whole team, Abby and Ducky included. Palmer may or may not have been affected; McGee had been actively avoiding both he and Agent Lee since the elevator incident.

McGee shuddered and wiped his hand on his jacket instinctively. He turned to Tony, asking, "Anything from Piper's sister?"

"Other than a dinner invitation for the man with the sexy voice?" He pointed at himself, but didn't bother to smile. "A whole lotta nothing. How's the phone trace coming?"

"I've got the computer running a…"

Gibbs marched into the bullpen and interrupted, "Do we have anything on who killed Helen Burns?"

"We're still trying to track the ex, boss, but so far…" Tony backed up slightly at an annoyed look from Gibbs, "we've only got McGee's little, uh, computer thing with the phone records."

McGee had only a second to think before Gibbs was leaning over him. The computer was still processing the data. It could take thirty seconds or an hour. He fell back on a convoluted explanation and prayed for thirty seconds. "I've inputted the locations of all…"

"Gibbs!" McGee let out a breath and silently thanked the Director, calling them from the catwalk. "You and your team in MTAC, now." She turned and disappeared into the door behind her.

Gibbs growled and stalked up the stairs, followed by Tony and McGee. Director Shepard was the only one in the darkened room when they entered. "What goes on in this room in the next few minutes will not be going beyond these walls. Is that understood?"

The three men nodded. McGee was completely lost. What could the Director possibly have on the Burns case that required a gag order?

"Good. We have a situation developing. An hour ago I received a report from one of our teams in Europe. A sailor on leave in France was killed by a group of Russian arms dealers known as the Molot."

"The 'Hammer'?" Gibbs interjected.

"Never mind the translation, Jethro. We're going to be interrupted very soon and I want to explain some things before…" she stopped as an indicator beeped on the console. "Too late." She pressed a button. "What is it, Cynthia?"

"CIA Director Fitzgerald is on teleconference for you."

"Link him through to MTAC."

"Yes, Ma'am."

A moment later a very angry man appeared on the main screen. "You've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, Shepard. You assured us that Dmitri Tushkevich was dead!" He slammed his hand on his desk for emphasis.

"When I gave you that information, he was, to the very best of my knowledge."

"Then perhaps you'd care to explain what he's doing frolicking on a beach on the French Riviera with _your_ pet Israeli!" He pressed a few buttons on the desk in front of him an a series of photographs appeared on the screen in a slideshow – Ziva and some guy, probably the Tushkevich the Director of the CIA was so worked up about, on a luxury yacht, Ziva and the guy in an expensive looking restaurant, Ziva on the beach…

McGee's mouth hung open. "Wow."

"You can go topless at most French beaches, Agent McGee," the Director said, giving him a severe look, "but I'll assume you're expressing shock over the apparent resurrection of Dmitri Tushkevich." She pointed to the computer terminals by the wall, then the photos on the video feed and silently mouthed, 'Save those.'

"Uh, yes, Ma'am." More pictures passed quickly on the screen. He was glad the Director had given him a task. Tony's tension level was obvious even from over here. He sank into one of the seats, covering his face with his hands. McGee couldn't blame him; Ziva appeared to be having a much better time away from him then he was away from her.

Director Shepard had also stopped watching the surveillance photos. "That's enough, Fitzgerald."

His expression had changed from irate to somewhat smug when his face reappeared onscreen. "Funny how she's managing to have so much fun in France when Immigration doesn't have a record of her leaving this country."

McGee had been wondering the same thing. Ziva's passport had never been checked by Customs at any airport, leading him to believe that, whatever she was doing, it was in the US. Director Shepard replied evenly, "As you know, Officer David was temporarily recalled by Moussad. They didn't disclose the nature of her assignment, but think we can safely assume that we now know what it is."

"And that would be…"

"Infiltrate the Molot and kill it from within."

"If that's true, why didn't Moussad reveal that she'd been unsuccessful on her last attempt?"

"I have it on good authority that Moussad was just as surprised as we were that he was alive. Just because they found out earlier and acted on the intel doesn't mean they've been sitting on this for more than a few months."

"Is your authority's last name David?" Fitzgerald's tone was condescending.

"One of them, but I have other contacts inside Moussad. However, I doubt you're taking time out of your busy schedule just to question the integrity of my information. The Director of the CIA doesn't normally call just to dangle his supposedly superior intelligence over other agencies, especially since you seem to be doing an awful lot of sharing."

"Nothing you don't already know, I'm sure, Shepard. I'm contacting you as a courtesy to express my concern for the integrity of NCIS. This isn't the first time the intelligence community has had reason to question the loyalties of Ziva David."

Tony jumped out of his chair. "That is bullshit!"

Director Shepard pushed him back to prevent him from joining the conversation. "If you're referring to the incident with the Iranians, Ziva was cleared of any wrong-doing."

"Perhaps. There's also her brother."

"Ari Haswari was only stopped with Ziva's assistance, as Agent Gibbs will corroborate."

McGee thought Gibbs seemed wooden as he answered, "I couldn't have killed him without her help."

"There are only so many coincidences I can accept. Ziva David spent over a year with Tushkevich and now that he's back she's gone straight to him. All previous suspicions are compound by this latest development. It will be very unfortunate for all involved when she shows her true colors and you find out she's turned traitor. That includes you personally and your agency, _Director_. I suggest you enjoy the title while you still can."

McGee looked over his shoulder, wanting to see Director's expression. His eyes were drawn first to Gibbs, digging his fingers into an enraged Tony's shoulder. Director Shepard, however, was calm as she answered Fitzgerald, "I'll look forward to your groveling apology when this is over." She terminated the connection and looked around the room. It exploded with sound as Tony, Gibbs and McGee all began speaking at once.

"Who the hell does that son of a…"

"Why didn't Moussad tell anyone about…"

"They can't really think Ziva…"

"Stop." She pointed to the front row of seats. "No questions. You're here to listen."

Once they were seated, she handed them each a plain file folder. McGee leafed through his as she said, "The man in the photographs with Ziva is Dmitri Alexandrovich Tushkevich. Four years ago, Ziva infiltrated his operation, the Molot. She was in for over a year and managed to get deep into the organization."

"How deep?" Gibbs asked, his eyes fixed on the same profile of the young Russian that McGee was reading.

Director Shepard swallowed uncomfortably before answering, "Engaged to Tushkevich. She used her influence within the group to rig an internal power struggle, which began with her convincing the nominal second in command, Grigory Selfin, to kill the boss on the premise that she would support his ascension. Instead of following the plan, she allowed Selfin to kill Tushkevich, then shot him in retaliation. With its two top men dead, the organization fell into disarray, and eventually collapsed."

"Only one thing wrong with your story, Jen," Gibbs said. "If that's Tushkevich, he's clearly not dead yet."

"Maybe he didn't want to go on the cart," Tony muttered. McGee didn't recognize the source of the poorly delivered joke. Tony hadn't dropped his habit of spouting movie lines, but he'd also stopped identifying them or saying them with anything resembling enthusiasm. Reflex could exist without passion, McGee decided.

Gibbs wasn't bothered by the aside. He was still speaking to Director Shepard. "Was she just his gun moll, or an active participant in the organization?"

"By the end of the assignment, she was his right hand. You don't get to that kind of position without," she paused, "without getting your hands dirty."

"Are we talking mokrie dela, here, Jen?"

"I thought that term went out with the KGB, Jethro. But yes. Additionally, she helped acquire and sell product."

"Product?"

"Mainly small arms and explosives. Most of the deals she had a hand in were disrupted one or two steps after the Molot's involvement ended, but a few slipped through the cracks, most notably, a bomb that Hamas used to kill three CIA operatives in Ankara."

"No wonder Fitzgerald is so pissed. But you didn't decide to tell us all this just to convince us that Ziva's still on our side."

"Why the hell would we need convincing? She's not a goddamn traitor, Gibbs!" McGee thought he could detect a slightly hysterical note in Tony's voice.

"Relax, DiNozzo, and let the Director tell us whatever she was going to tell us about that dead sailor in France. What, you thought that bald ape from the CIA made me forget about that?"

"Of course not, Jethro. What I've just told you is a basic outline of why we're going to be the team investigating the murder."

"_We_, Jen?"

"Yes. I was Ziva's backup the last time she went under with the Molot. I know the players and the signs. Since Tushkevich hasn't killed her yet, we can assume he doesn't know she set him up and might be needing support at some point. I want to be available immediately if it comes to that. I haven't been able to get in touch with Director David yet, but the dead sailor gives us a viable in."

"You think the Molot killed him?"

"After seeing the crime scene photos? Yes. They always had a very…distinctive style." She checked her watch. "Go home and pack, meet back here at 2200. We may be in Europe for a while. And we'll continue this briefing on the plane." She left the room, closely followed by Gibbs.

McGee hung back, waiting for Tony to rise. "Something I can do for you, Probie?"

"You okay?"

"We're goin' to France. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"Well, Ziva…" McGee trailed off. Ziva, what? He had no idea. "Tony, we always knew she was a spy. She didn't hide that."

"Yeah, McGee. Yeah." He rose slowly and the file folder that had been sitting in his lap fell to the floor. As he bent to retrieve it, a charm on a gold chain swung out from his open shirt collar.

It only took McGee a moment to recognize it. "Is that…?"

"Yeah." Tony self-consciously tucked the Star of David back inside his shirt. "I had to get a longer chain for it. The whole 'it's choking me' thing should have been my first sign to just take it off."

McGee placed his hand on Tony's shoulder. "She's not cheating on you. She's just doing her job."

He glanced at the hand on his shoulder before looking up. "I know that, Tim. But it still sucks."

McGee grabbed the disc with the CIA surveillance photos and accompanied Tony out of MTAC. They walked down to the bullpen. He decided to try one last attempt at elevating his friend's mood. "At least we'll be seeing her soon."

"Yeah, wrapped around a Russian arms dealer."

"Sorry." McGee gave himself a mental Gibbs slap. "I just meant we'll be close to her if anything happens."

"Close is good, I guess." Tony finally smiled as he pulled on his coat. "Just do me one favor, Probie."

"Anything."

"Stop picturing her on that beach."

McGee returned Tony's smile after a moment's hesitation. "Right."

* * *

Ziva read over the e-mail she'd just typed. Dmitri leaned over her shoulder, kissing her neck as he read the screen. "Our first big deal since my return and you're already selling our clients out to Moussad?"

"They'd try to pull me out if they didn't see some immediate returns. And these guys are just little fish. Moussad won't apprehend them until they've had a chance to disseminate some information to the big boys. As you've often told me, word of mouth is the best advertisement in our line of work. Al-Qaeda and the other high rollers will be lining up within two weeks, especially if you've really got the goods you've been tempting me with."

"All in good time, my princess." He covered her hand on the laptop mouse-pad with his own and clicked 'send.' "I don't care how many of these fanatics get captured or killed, as long as you make sure some are left to pay us."

She looked around the deck of their yacht. "As if I would sacrifice our quality of life." She shut off the computer and allowed Dmitri to lead her below decks to their stateroom.


	11. Chapter 11

Tony indiscriminately tossed a pile of shirts, pants and boxers into a large suitcase on his bed. Suits. He would probably need a few suits. That meant he had to find his garment bag. He swore as he tripped over a pair of shoes and took a header into the bed. His face sank into the thick down comforter. He'd only been with Ziva twice in his own bed, but he swore he could still smell her in the linens. He had already changed the sheets and washed the duvet cover twice. Her scent lingered. It was inescapable. He sometimes thought he could smell her on his hands, as if he had just run them through her silky hair, letting her curls twist around his fingers and fall into his face as she…

He pushed himself off the comforter. He had to pack, not let his imagination run riot with his absent…girlfriend? Lover? Soul mate? He settled on just Ziva. His Ziva. He grasped her necklace.

The garment bag was in the hall closet, he suddenly remembered. To get to it he had to push aside her long gray coat, the one with the vivid red lining. He'd almost fallen out of his chair the first time she'd walked into the office wearing that coat. She'd left it hanging in the closet when they'd woken up to an unseasonably warm morning. That had been the second time they'd been in his apartment. The soft wool brushed his cheek as he leaned down to get his bag and he inhaled her again. Why did scent have to be the strongest sense tied to memory? Come to think of it, she'd always been unusually fixated on the way he smelled, even when she was complaining about it; it had never stopped her from getting close, that was certain. He abruptly slammed the closet door on the coat and stalked back to his bedroom. He'd forgotten to throw any socks in his suitcase.

An hour later, he was completely packed and attempting to eat pizza from a box in his passenger seat as he drove back to NCIS. A gob of cheese and pepperoni landed in his lap. "Dammit!" He swerved into oncoming traffic in his attempt to retrieve the greasy little stain-maker. The rising pitch of a car horn alerted him to his position. He veered back into his own lane, popping the fugitive pepperoni into his mouth. She was affecting his driving, if not his eating habits. They always got mushrooms and green peppers when they ordered pizza; she claimed pepperoni wasn't kosher, but he could swear he'd seen her eat it at least once. She only pulled the kosher card to get her own way. He was starting to hate knowing all her quirks. It was fine when she was around, but it was all he could do not to imagine her response to every little thing now that she was gone, cruising the Riviera with…

Thoughts like that were likely to get him into an accident. Logically, he knew she was working, that it didn't mean anything. Those pictures, though. Tushkevich's hands were on her. On Ziva. On _his_ Ziva. And she'd been returning the scum's kisses, his caresses. What upset him even more was what wasn't in the photos. Jenny had said Ziva was ostensibly engaged to Tushkevich. Direct experience with her sexual aggressiveness told Tony that meant bad news. He knew she was a damn fine actress, but there was only so much a man could take. And what kind of man wouldn't respond zealously to Ziva in that microscopic scrap of a bikini bottom? Heck, even McGee hadn't been able to restrain himself. Oh, had she looked tan and gorgeous in those CIA pictures. She probably smelled like sand and coconut oil, and felt even warmer to the touch than normal. He would tease every bit of exposed skin, working her into a frenzy, before slipping his hands into that little piece of light blue fabric.

Tony looked around and realized he was in the NCIS parking lot. Fantasizing really passed the time. Not as well as having her with him, but well enough. For the time being. He fumbled his luggage and pizza up to the squad room.

* * *

"All packed, Probie? Got your toothbrush? Got your blankie?"

"Director Shepard said she didn't know how long we'd be there."

"Yeah, but she didn't tell us we each have our own Sherpa, either."

"I happen to believe in being prepared."

"So all that Boy Scout training is finally paying off? Might as well have been a Girl Scout the way you've packed."

"Yeah, well when you run out of clean shirts after a week or ten days, don't come crying to me to borrow one."

"Okay, number one, they do have washing machines in Europe, and number two, I wouldn't be caught dead in some of the stuff you wear."

"What is wrong with the way I dress?"

"It's not that there's something really _wrong_ with it. It's fine for you, it's just not really me."

"And who are you, Beau Brummell?"

"You're defending your fashion sense by making nineteenth century references? I'd demand satisfaction, sir, if not for fear of disarranging my cravat!"

"Why are you in such a good mood all of a sudden?"

"Must be the pizza."

"Can I have a slice?"

"What do I get?"

"You want payment for a piece of pizza? C'mon, it's not like you were gonna eat the whole thing."

"I still might."

"Fine. Don't share with me. I'll just sit here examining those photos the CIA sent us earlier."

"Take the damn pizza."

"Tony, I wasn't really going to…"

"I'm going to the bathroom."

* * *

Jenny Shepard checked her watch. It was 9:34 PM in Washington, so it was…plus seven hours or six?…seven, definitely seven…so, 4:30 in the morning in Tel Aviv? Trying to call Director David at this hour would be an exercise in futility.

She hadn't bothered to go home; she'd had her bags packed since Ziva had left. She was more eager than she cared to admit about going back into the field. Administration had its perks, but it was distinctly lacking in what could only be classified as 'the rush.' No one in a suit ever pointed a gun at her. Frankly, she would have preferred the direct approach to the underhanded maneuverings on the Hill. Her temporary substitute would be arriving from San Diego in the morning, long after she'd left. She checked her weapon for the umpteenth time.

Their flight didn't leave for another two hours and her agents weren't due for at least twenty minutes. Packing in advance had been her mistake. She'd been ready to leave since informing the team of her plans in MTAC. All intervening time had been spent worrying and speculating. She wasn't surprised that Moussad had let them find out Tushkevich was alive on their own, but she had hoped Ziva would be more forthcoming.

She sighed and collapsed into her chair, lost in thought. They'd been through a lot together subsequent to Ziva's first assignment with the Molot. Jenny had been the one to pick her up in Vienna a week after she killed Selfin. The next six months had been spent on a whirlwind driving tour of Eastern Europe, flushing out the latest on who had killed who within the group, and occasionally doing the job themselves. Ziva had actually done most of the shooting; fourteen months undercover had made the whole thing very personal for her. They'd managed to confirm or cause the death or arrest of almost everyone who could potentially fill the power vacuum left by Tushkevich when they located their final targets, Pavel and Boris Praskov. They'd made the trip from Warsaw to Rome in record time.

It's probably a bad sign when remembering homicides you've committed makes you feel nostalgic, she reflected. Still, Jenny would never forget Ziva collapsing in exhaustion and relief across the room from the Praskovs' bodies, cradling her arm, wrapped in rags and several sections of rebar scrounged from a construction site. She'd broken it falling off a roof while conducting surveillance on the targets two weeks previously. If Fitzgerald had ever seen _that_ Ziva, he'd never question her dedication or loyalty.

Jenny checked her gun and watch again. 4:56 AM in Tel Aviv. Five minutes until the team arrived. They'd probably been sitting in the squad room, waiting for her. She steeled herself for five more minutes; she didn't want them to see her impatience.

* * *

"Wow. Private jet."

"What, did you think we were flying coach, Probie?"

"No, it's just nice."

"And we don't deserve 'nice' every so often?"

"Look, I just assumed we would be stuck in the back of a C-130 or something like that."

"I think we rate a little higher than cargo."

"The last time the Navy sent us somewhere on a private jet we were going to Kate's funeral."

"…"

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I'll just, uh, start bringing my luggage over."

"Maybe Tenzing Norgay over there could help you."

"I said I was sorry, Tony."

"I heard you."

* * *

Gibbs found the movable leather seats on metal tracks and oak conference table ostentatious. The Gulfstream G550 felt too big for just the four of them. Even the bathroom was too big for a goddamn airplane. The only thing he found impressive was the selection in the bar. He poured himself a generous glass of Famous Grouse, neat. He had already tucked the bottle of Johnnie Walker Green Label into his small carry-on. LJ Tibbs would be proud.

He sat at the conference table and surveyed his team. Tony had made himself a Stoli and cranberry just after takeoff, but barely touched it. McGee was drinking a Diet Coke. Jen was on her second Glenlivet on the rocks. Whatever she was planning to brief them on really had to suck. Despite their current height over the Atlantic, she didn't look ready to start. Gibbs prompted, "What else do we need to know about what we're getting into here?"

She placed her drink on the table and stared down at a folder. "Let's start at the very beginning."

"A very good place to start," Tony muttered.

Jen sounded rehearsed as she said, "A little over five years ago, the intelligence community started seeing a lot of chatter regarding a group of arms dealers calling themselves the Molot. They were Russians and they specialized in selling Cold War-era weapons. They gained access to old Soviet arms and sold them to the highest bidders, mainly terrorist organizations. We've never been sure how they did it or if we caught all their suppliers.

"The leader of the group was Dmitri Tushkevich, a former Spetsnaz commando. He was young, but he knew what he was doing. Not surprising considering his father was suspected to be Alexander Nozdryov, who made his living selling weapons to South American drug cartels, among others. Multiple attempts were made to infiltrate the Molot, but all were unsuccessful. NCIS lost three agents. I don't know how many other agencies lost, but there were confirmed casualties from the CIA, MI-5 and Moussad.

"No one could even get into the organization, much less close to Tushkevich, not until a deputy director at Moussad devised a plan. Ziva's original assignment was to attach herself to a minor player, go in and get close enough to assassinate Tushkevich, but circumstances proved more fortuitous. He fell for her and he fell hard. Things got more complicated from there.

"She ended up telling him she was Moussad and had been sent to kill him, but couldn't do it because she'd fallen in love with him. He believed her and thought he had a double agent working for him. She would feed some information to Moussad, much of it useful in taking out the Molot's enemies and rivals. Moussad would arrest arms dealers, the Molot would strengthen its market share.

"Being so close to Tushkevich, Ziva was able to learn the layout of the entire organization. Not only that, she gained the trust of many of the key members. She was eventually able to create a divide in the group – those loyal to Tushkevich and those wanting a change. I've already told you how she set up Selfin.

"She and I spent the next six months ensuring that the Molot would no longer be an active participant in the arms trade. We thought we'd eliminated them as a whole." Jen stopped to take a sip of her drink.

Gibbs swirled his own around the glass, watching the liquid's circular path leave a wet ring that quickly evaporated. "But Tushkevich isn't dead."

"No. He's not. I haven't been able to get in touch with Director David yet, but I suspect he's sent Ziva back in on the same mission as last time. She'll gather information until the Molot becomes too powerful, then engineer its collapse."

"And she's supposed to do this by herself? Again?"

"That's why we're flying to Europe, Jethro. So she won't have to do it alone. We don't make contact unless she gives us a signal, but we stay close enough to be immediately effective."

"And the dead sailor?" McGee asked.

"We already know the Molot killed him."

"Rule number eight, Jen."

"Trust me. It's not an assumption."

Gibbs glanced over the crime scene photos on the table. Hell of a way to go.

* * *

"So how do you like France so far, Probie?"

"We've been riding in a car, in the dark, for three hours. France looks like any back road in Virginia at this point."

"Cheer up. When we get to Toulon we get to visit a warehouse! And a morgue!"

"Somehow I never envisioned my first trip to France involving a sailor murdered by vicious Russian mobsters."

"It can't all be hours roaming the Louvre and romantic kisses on top of the Eiffel Tower."

"I see you've got everything planned out for when Ziva rejoins the good guys."

"Yeah, like I'm going to a museum. Didn't you pack an inflate-o-date in one of your suitcases?"

"Funny, Tony. Seriously though, aren't French women supposed to be…well, they've got the topless beaches and…"

"Unshaved underarms. That's all you need to know."

"There must be some that shave."

"I wouldn't wager money on it."

"Doesn't Ziva shave?"

"Uh-huh, but she's Israeli, not French."

"Oh, yeah. But the French women, I should be able to see any hair on the beach, right?"

"If we ever get some downtime on a beach, you can go up to them and ask them to do the wave."

* * *

Ziva yawned and pulled a knee up to her chest as Ivan, their top security man, handed Dmitri a black folder embossed with a silver hammer. She snickered, "I see you've already had stationary made, Mitya. I hope you'll at least allow me to have some input on the new china patterns." She pushed the fresh fruit around her plate.

He reached across the breakfast table set up in the bow and took her hand. "Appearances count. The naturally beautiful often forget that." He placed a kiss on her knuckles and held onto her hand as he read.

She sipped her coffee. "Anything interesting?"

"Jenny Shepard." He looked up. "She arrived in Marseilles this morning with a small group of men."

Ziva's brows contracted in a severe line. "I didn't contact her."

"Will she be a problem?"

"She knows better than to get involved without my go-ahead, although it is odd that she's in Europe at all. She's the Director of NCIS now," she explained at Dmitri's questioning look. "Administrators shouldn't be getting involved in operations."

He laughed. "Is that how it works at Moussad?"

"I meant _American_ administrators. Who was with her?" She pulled her hand from his and looked at a grainy photo. "She brought an entire NCIS team with her?"

"This is Smerdyakov's doing. He told me the deal with that petty officer had gone sour."

"He was stupid enough to murder a member of the US Navy? I'll never understand why you didn't just let me kill him three years ago."

"He has his uses. But to return to Shepard – how much does she know?"

"She knows as much as everyone else. She may think she has some inside information, but she doesn't know you helped me plan the cleansing of the organization."

"If we have to do that again, I am wearing a bulletproof vest." He rubbed his chest. "Or perhaps we could skip the 'assassinate Dmitri' step altogether. I do not have to tell you how enjoyable it is to be shot."

"Hm." She touched her stomach. "It was necessary. You had to be dead in everyone's eyes for it to work."

"So you are saying I should be glad I am one in one million?"

"Statistically speaking, I believe it's one in ten thousand. At least when someone tells you your heart is in the wrong place, you can blame it on genetics."


	12. Chapter 12

A/n: French women should yell at Tony, not Sheep, for the 'controversial' content in the last chapter. Thanks to Jeanne Luz for realizing that and running defense in the reviews. That said, it would be churlish of me if I failed to give a general thank you to _all_ who have taken the time to review thus far. So, thank you.

* * *

Gibbs glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at the two gendarmes that had accompanied them from the police offices to the crime scene in an abandoned warehouse that smelled strongly of fish. A large pool of dried blood was the only indication that the location was the site of recent crime scene. He glanced around the large, empty floor, wondering how much they were going to be able to ascertain from a preprocessed scene. He decided it was best to start with the basics. "How did Petty Officer Zamansky end up here?"

"He drove."

"He drove, McGee?"

"Uh, the report stated that his rental car was found outside. His prints were on the steering wheel along with about fifteen other people's."

"Kinda like testing for DNA on the sheets in a hotel room, boss." Tony grinned over his camera, but his expression altered as he looked at Gibbs. "But we're still gonna process that car once these nice, uh, genders take us back to their crime lab."

"It's gendarmes, Tony," Jen corrected.

McGee chuckled. "Bet Ziva would enjoy hearing someone else on the receiving end for once."

"Yeah. Funny how she's not here, Probie."

Gibbs noted that McGee didn't hold Tony's stare as long as Ziva would have in a similar situation. That was only natural. Gibbs knew that he could have hindered their relationship if he'd put a stop to the staring when he'd initially noticed it during Ziva's first weeks on the team. Rule number twelve only served to encourage people like Tony and Ziva, but, in hindsight, he still wished he'd done something to impede the evolution of their relationship; at the very least, he could have forestalled Tony's current distraction. He spoke to no one in particular, "Why would Zamansky be meeting with arms dealers?"

"Yeah, what would a petty officer have to do for international gangsters to kill him?"

"Probably not much, Tony," Jen replied. "The Molot isn't an organization that deals gently with people who try to swindle them."

Gibbs considered for a moment. "You think he promised them some sort of weapons deal then got killed when he welshed on it?"

"It's possible."

"But what kind of weapons would Zamansky have access to that the Molot would want?"

"He served on a _Ticonderoga_ class cruiser. He had access to the ship's magazine. The Molot buys and sells missiles, among other weapons. Clear enough for you, DiNozzo?"

"I'm just suggesting that maybe he as accomplices. It's not like he could hide a Tomahawk in his pants and walk off the ship."

"Another NCIS team is interviewing his shipmates," Jen said.

"Why not us?" Gibbs asked, insulted that both his active investigation in DC and current assignment in Europe were both out of his control.

"The USS _Bunker Hill_ is stationed in the Persian Gulf at the moment. We're not leaving Europe unless…"she paused to look distrustfully at the gendarmes standing across the floor, "unless we have to."

He glanced around the warehouse. "I think we're done here, Jen. Maybe we should head to the lab to see what our amigos have figured out."

"We're in France, not Spain, Jethro."

"Like I give a damn." He walked toward the large garage-style door of the building. The sooner Ziva got out of the Molot and his team got back to their normal routine, the better.

* * *

Ziva forcefully slapped the small man kneeling in front of her. He whimpered, but she hit him again. Harder. "Why did you kill a naval officer?"

"He did not deliver what he promised!" he whined, his voice reaching a decidedly feminine timbre.

She struck him again, drawing blood from his swollen lip. "You've involved people who should not be here."

"Ziva, show some compassion," Dmitri said, laughing at her hardhearted threats to the pitiable pawn. "Put the knife away."

"Thank you, sir!" the man exclaimed.

"Do not thank me yet, Smerdyakov. She can do plenty with just her hands."

"As I'm sure you know personally, sir."

Dmitri abruptly gave Smerdyakov a violent blow to the head. "Do not be disrespectful to her, idiot. I would not hesitate to kill you."

"Of course not, sir. My apologies, Madame Tushkevich."

Ziva sneered, "Get off our ship, you revolting swine, and try not to kill anyone noteworthy before we see you again."

Smerdyakov continued groveling as Ivan led him toward the gangway. Dmitri pulled Ziva into his lap. "He did make one good point. Hopefully you will be Ziva Tushkevich before long." When they kissed, the diamond on her left hand glinted in the bright sunlight as she stroked his neck. He whispered into her ear, "I had forgotten how…inspirational your interrogations can be."

"Bring me someone worthwhile and I'll give you a real show." She squirmed out of his embrace, beckoning him to follow her. "Shall we go for a swim?"

* * *

The dimly lit hallways of the morgue provided the greatest contrast for Gibbs between Toulon and Washington. One of the gendarmes from the warehouse introduced the group of NCIS agents, "This is our coroner, Dr. Canard."

The older man clad in scrubs smiled genially, saying in a clipped accent, "A pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Special Agent Gibbs, this is Director Shepard. DiNozzo and McGee," he finished, pointing over his shoulder before extending his hand. "So where's our dead sailor?"

"Right this way Agent Gibbs." He held the door as Jen passed. "Madame Directeur." Gibbs noted she didn't amend the man's manner of address. He led them to a freezer, undid the latch and pulled the slab out. "This is Petty Officer William Zamansky."

"How was this confirmed?" Gibbs doubted it could have been done with photos. The dead man's face looked like it had imploded. For that matter, dental records would also be out of the question. Gibbs gestured to McGee, who started snapping pictures.

The ME was not pleased. "We have already documented the body."

"Well if you did as good a job of that as you did answering the simple question I just asked, I have reason to be worried."

"Agent Gibbs…" Jen's tone carried a warning: play nice.

The ME sniffed and continued, "He was wearing his dog tags and he had a military ID. They'll be included in the physical evidence my assistant is retrieving as we speak. We also ran his fingerprints. It appears he had some troubles with public intoxication in Italy two years ago, so they were on file with Interpol."

"Interpol doesn't concern itself with local disturbances like that," Gibbs countered.

"The incidents all occurred at a known house of prostitution that also served as headquarters of sorts for a multinational cocaine trafficking ring, which made him a person of interest."

"I fail to see how this helps us gentlemen. If we could move on to how Petty Officer Zamansky died, Doctor?"

"Of course, Madame Directeur." The assistant helped him roll the body. "The first wound appeared to be a gunshot, here, that entered between T7 and L1, severing the spinal cord and lodging in the body of L1. He would not have had any feeling or function in his lower extremities after the injury, which explains why he suffered no major damage to his legs." They allowed the corpse to roll back. "The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the skull, but just looking at the poor bastard, I'm sure you wonder how I managed to figure that out." He looked pointedly at Gibbs and led them to a plastic crate his bespectacled assistant had just placed on one of the examination tables. He held up a plastic bag containing a bloody hammer. "The murder weapon was recovered at the scene."

"So they shot him in the back, paralyzing his legs so he couldn't run away, then beat him to death with a claw hammer?" Tony asked, contorting his features.

"It's actually a framing hammer," Gibbs said, inspecting the tool through the plastic. "Heavier, longer handle, textured face on the head. Carpenters use them to whack stuff on the inner woodwork that won't be seen, since the milling mars the wood. The weight of it means less force is required to drive a nail."

"Is that important?"

"If you're building a house or being beaten to death, I'd say yeah."

"Right, boss. Meaner hammer causes more damage. Certainly explains how he, uh, lost his face."

Gibbs tried not to smile at Tony's continuing parade of grimaces. "How many times was he struck with the hammer?"

"Well, he was beaten severely around his upper extremities and chest," the ME answered. "He had serious internal bleeding and there are perimortem fractures to both scapulae, both clavicles, all the arm bones, most of the fingers, almost all the ribs…"

"Okay, we get it. Those occurred before the head trauma, you said?"

"Yes. He was in terrible pain before they started, as you Americans might say, whaling on his head."

"And how many blows to the head did it take to kill him?"

"Probably only one, but they gave him…"

"Five around the cranium," Jen interrupted. "And the facial mutilation was postmortem."

"Yes, Madame Directeur, but how could you know that? I had not yet submitted a report when I learned you were coming."

"Experience, Dr. Canard. Thank you for your time." She started for the door.

Gibbs followed, saying to McGee and Tony, "Catalogue that evidence and leave the paperwork for transferring the body." The ME called after him, but he continued walking. He caught Jen in the building's foyer. "Hey! What's goin' on?"

"It's just been a while since I've seen someone who'd been killed like that."

"You're not gonna puke on my shoes, are you?"

"Lose the attitude."

"So sorry, Madame Director."

"What have I said about that, Jethro?"

"Guess it slipped my mind. You didn't seem to mind when that…that French Ducky said it."

"This is no time for jokes. Ziva is undercover with the men who did that to that sailor."

"She can take care of herself, Jen." Gibbs paused to consider something. "Did she ever…"

"No! Not like that, anyway."

Their conversation ended as McGee and Tony walked up with the box of evidence. "Did you notice his assistant looked almost exactly like…"

"Our autopsy gremlin? Yeah, Probie. I would save the freak out in case they have their own Abby too."

* * *

"Smerdyakov is going to destroy us, Mitya," Ziva said, hauling her slender body out of the water onto the rear deck of the yacht. "He doesn't understand the dangers. We're still vulnerable and the last thing we need is more enemies."

Dmitri followed her toward their quarters. "He assumes that if one is involved in illegal trafficking of one type, one has a right to all the black market has to offer."

"Did you give him permission to negotiate for drugs?"

"I have no interest in expanding our business in that direction. Anything that occurred with that navy man was his own doing."

She passed through their stateroom to the master bathroom. "And now we have NCIS to deal with."

"I know Shepard is a friend of yours, but why are you so concerned with them?"

"Oh no reason, it's just another agency to add to the list of those who would vanquish us, given the opportunity," she replied sarcastically. She turned on the shower and held her hand under the stream, waiting for it to warm up. "We'll always have to deal with government authorities, but we shouldn't invite trouble by pissing off the US Navy for nothing. What?"

"Vanquish…" He kicked his swimsuit off, allowing it to remain on the bathroom floor. "_That_ is the Aston Martin I saw. Shall we get one?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, and you should not worry, my princess. Your father will throw them off if necessary."

"He's not going to tell the Americans anything. Moussad will not interfere to harm us or protect us. They have too much to lose either way."

She closed the sliding door of the shower as she moved under the steaming cascade of water, forcing herself to relax. The salt on her skin made it feel slick. Dmitri stepped in behind her, taking the bottle of shampoo from her hands. He worked a gentle lather into her hair. "So what color Vanquish would you like?"

She turned, her hand sliding down to tease him. "I already told you I want the orange Gallardo."

He let out a shaky breath. "Yes…whatever you want."

* * *

Gibbs sat on the couch in the hotel suite the whole team was sharing, reading a file Jen had given him. Prints on the hammer handle had matched a Konstantin Smerdyakov, a member of the Molot Jen and Ziva hadn't eliminated due to his relative unimportance. He had a record of theft and fraud, but Gibbs had yet to find a reason the unimpressive man would be associated with Tushkevich, aside from the apparent talent with a hammer they had just witnessed. His gut told him something didn't fit.

Jen walked in and sat at the table, uncapping a bottle of water. He frowned at her. "This Smerdyakov, did you ever meet him?"

"Not personally, but I've seen him. Nothing to write home about. He's a hanger-on. Ziva described him as a 'real froggy.' She meant…"

"Toady," Gibbs supplied. "I get it, Jen. Did he seem capable of something like this?" He held up a photograph of the mutilated petty officer.

"I wouldn't have thought so, based on Ziva's intel. Anyone perceived as a potential threat was dealt with."

"So either she was wrong, or he didn't do it."

"His fingerprints were all over the handle of the hammer."

"Guess what that leaves us, Jen."

The conversation was again ended by the entrance of Tony and McGee, carrying several plain paper bags. "Just remember, when we _do_ go to a McDonald's, you can't order a Quarter Pounder with cheese. They call it a Royale with cheese. Wanna know what they call a Big Mac?"

"I've seen _Pulp Fiction_, Tony."

"Oh." He handed a bag to Gibbs. "Here's your sandwich, boss. So where do we go from here?"

Jen answered, "It's likely Smerdyakov will report to his boss at some point and it looks like Tushkevich is traveling up the coast. He was spotted in Saint-Tropez, Cannes, Antibes, and most recently in Nice. It's a safe bet that they'll be stopping in Monaco at some point, so that's where we're headed."

"You sure?"

"They're young, rich and traveling on a yacht." She ticked her list off on her fingers. "Tushkevich has been making himself visible. Why would he suddenly want to avoid attention in Monte Carlo?"

"I thought people wanted to kill this guy. Is it smart for him to advertise his presence like that?"

"He's been dead for three years, McGee," Gibbs said. "If he wants clients he needs to show them he's back and ready for business. What I'm wondering is where he's getting his money. Didn't you and Ziva seize the Molot's assets?"

"There were accounts she didn't know about, obviously. Don't look at me that way, Jethro."

"She didn't know Tushkevich was alive. She didn't know how dangerous Smerdyakov was. She didn't know where all the money was. It just makes me wonder what else she didn't know about."


	13. Chapter 13

"A vodka martini, please," Tony said to the bartender, "shaken, not stirred." He made a special effort not to use his Bond accent as he remembered a conversation he'd had with Ziva on one of their movie nights during her convalescence.

"It's essential that you order only a vodka martini shaken not stirred," she'd said. "I've heard more people ruin traditional martinis by asking to have them shaken."

"So your expertise extends past spying and classic literature into bartending?"

"I worked as a bartender in London for a while."

"Worked or _worked_?"

"I was keeping an eye on an IRA assassin who did some freelance work for Hezbollah. All he ever ordered was Guinness, but that's not the point. I had tourists constantly ordering martinis shaken, not stirred. Shaking destroys the more subtle flavors in the gin. Only an asshole who's seen too many James Bond movies makes that mistake."

"But shaking a vodka martini is okay?"

"Yes. Shaking makes the drink colder, and you want the vodka as cold as you can get it."

"That's good to know. Now I won't look like an asshole who's seen too many Bond films."

"Not when you're ordering drinks, at least." She'd only been out of the hospital for three days when that conversation had occurred. He'd later carried her to bed when she'd fallen asleep on the couch with her head on a pillow in his lap.

Even though she'd been recovering from a gunshot, everything had seemed so perfect then, like the future held nothing but promise. It had been so wonderful he hadn't even been assailed by the fear of commitment that usually accompanied his relationships. The terror of being with only one woman had been superseded by the absolute panic of having her die in his arms. If she'd asked, he would have stopped watching college football on Saturdays, said no when one of his buddies called him to go clubbing, stayed home to help cook dinner, sold his Mustang…

Rationally he knew he would have done none of those things because the blithe fairy tale would have ended soon enough. He would have wanted more space, she would have accused him of smothering her. There would have been arguments. There would have been fighting. There would have been make-up sex. When had everything in his mind changed from 'will be' to 'would have been'? He would be happy just to have a fight at this point, anything to see her and talk to her, find out if she was as upset about their situation as he was.

He laid a 20 euro note on the bar and surveyed his surroundings as he sipped his drink. He would have preferred a Stoli and cranberry, but if there was ever a time to play James Bond, this was it. Tony smiled in spite of himself as he caught his reflection in one of the mirrors of the Monte Carlo Casino. He'd been saving his new suit for a special occasion and this was about as special as he could hope for. Monaco was one of the few places his father had never dragged him. It was probably for the best; he wouldn't have appreciated it when younger. He took a moment to adjust his tie before approaching Gibbs and Shepard at a small table by the wall. "So NCIS will shell out for hotel rooms in the richest little country in the world, but they won't spring for an Armani tux for their best agent?"

"Something wrong with my suit, DiNozzo?"

"No, boss, I just meant…that, uh, that is a nice suit, boss. No need for anything different."

"Remind me to smack you later."

He eyed Gibbs suspiciously. "Why later?"

"Because Tushkevich just walked in."

Tony turned but didn't even see the man. He didn't see anyone else in the room. There was only Ziva. Ziva walking through door, making heads snap around to watch her entrance. Ziva wearing a strapless silvery, shimmery dress with a slit that went all the way to oh, my. Ziva tucking a strand of silky hair behind her ear and allowing her fingertips to trail down her neck. Ziva drinking a martini, her lips puckering as she sipped, leaving light lipstick marks on the rim of the glass held by delicately splayed fingers.

Ziva with someone other than him. Ziva looking everywhere but his direction.

This was the closest he'd been to her in weeks. She was a completely different woman from the one he'd held in his arms while they'd slept, the one he'd woken with gentle kisses and touches, the one he'd…the one who had left him a parting letter that said nothing and everything, a letter that had become as much a part of his wardrobe as the Star of David around his neck.

As the ring on her finger.

_And please know that, if I don't come back, it won't be because I didn't want to._

The rest of the night in the casino passed in a murky haze. Maintain visual. Repeat that. Confirm. Report. Solid on the visuals.

Gibbs never smacked him.

Tony came to his senses some hours later, standing under the freezing spray of the hotel shower. His only thought was that she certainly played 'in love' well. Everything in him fought against the staggering idea that the acting was then and not now.

* * *

The tires of the new orange Lamborghini Gallardo squealed as Ziva took a turn at high speed, popping the clutch and accelerating into the straightaway. She laughed with reckless glee. "Oh, Mitya, if only we could race in the Grand Prix!"

Dmitri's knuckles were white as he gripped his knees. "You could certainly compete at a Formula One level."

"Am I making you nervous?"

"You? Never. The police sirens following us? Perhaps a little."

She shifted into a lower gear, causing the engine to whine as she increased their speed. Buildings blurred together as they raced past. "They won't catch us. And if they do, the only laws we've broken are traffic related. Monte Carlo runs on money and the police are not immune to its temptation."

"Still, I would prefer not being caught. There were enough people watching us vigilantly at the casino last night." He gasped as she veered into an alley, following its sharp twists to a side street, where she pulled into another dark alley and shut off the lights and motor. The sirens receded into the distance.

"Shall we wait here for a while?" At his nod, she trailed her fingers up his thigh as she leaned over to kiss him. "And _what_ shall we do to pass the time?"

He didn't respond to her advances but raised the scissor door and stepped out of the car. "Why don't we leave the car here and walk back to the boat?"

"The boat?" She opened her own door, allowing the hydraulics to raise it fully. "But almost all our things are at the hotel."

He took her hand and pulled her from the car, tugging the door down behind her. "We have drawn enough attention here. We will have the luggage sent after us."

She laced her arm though his as they walked down the darkened street. "And the car?"

"Leave it. I will buy you a new one when we get to Paris. We will have time to take delivery on the Murciélago they could not order for us here."

"Why are we leaving the Riviera so soon?"

"We will cruise for a few more days if you like, get into Italy and fly from there. Genoa, perhaps. We have made our presence known to the right people, but there are too many unwanted eyes on us here now and we are too exposed. I will feel more secure when we return to our townhouse." He patted her hand. "Jenny Shepard was at the casino last night."

"I saw her."

"Did you acknowledge her?"

"No. If I had she would have thought I was asking for backup. Or worse, questioned me about why I told her Smerdyakov was no threat. Honestly, Mitya, he is the stupidest assassin I've ever known. Leaving the weapon? Couldn't you have kept Sobakevich instead?"

"The man had an independent streak that matched his voracious appetite. At least Smerdyakov is pliable. And he does not get stupid until the job is complete. NCIS would have linked the killing to the Molot eventually." They walked in silence for a short time. "Do you know the men that were with her?"

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs and Anthony DiNozzo," Ziva answered quickly.

Dmitri scrutinized her. "The younger one could not keep his eyes off you."

"They were there to watch us." She peered into the distance, as if trying to pick out their ship from the fleet of luxury yachts moored in the harbor.

"He was paying more attention than necessary."

She snuggled closer to him as they walked. "Are you saying it's surprising for a man to pay attention to me, Mitya?"

His arm encircled her waist. "No. I will just feel better if we escape from prying eyes. This place feels too closely packed for me to be comfortable."


	14. Chapter 14

McGee looked around the room to confirm it was empty before giving his laptop an energetic thump. He'd never live it down if Gibbs or Tony saw him using their preferred technical fix. Just because it never worked didn't mean it didn't help the user, even though it wasn't the computer's fault they'd completely lost track of Ziva and Tushkevich.

Nothing had seemed amiss when the pair failed to return to their hotel room last night; Monte Carlo was full of activity at all hours. They had beaten the couple to the city by four days, so McGee had had some time to explore and experience that for himself. Despite Tony's complaints, McGee had found the NCIS petty cash fund adequate to his needs. He found that traveling with the Director certainly had its advantages.

Of course, since the pair of interest had turned up, he'd spent most of his hours in front of a computer, coordinating surveillance by hacking into security cameras and keeping tabs on the CIA team's intelligence.

At the moment, one member of the Molot was still in the city, though he appeared to be preparing to leave. McGee was currently watching the muscle, Ivan Poplyovin, cart luggage from the abandoned hotel room to a black Range Rover. As far as McGee could tell, Poplyovin was just a hired thug who seemed to have access to everything the Tushkeviches – _Ziva _and Tushkevich did. McGee had gotten into the foolish habit of thinking of them as a real couple.

As if on cue, Tony stalked into the room, his eyes rapidly scanning left and right. He'd been in a foul mood since he, Gibbs and Director Shepard had observed Tushkevich at the casino two nights previously. From the surveillance footage, McGee could understand why. If Ziva was getting that touchy-feely with the guy in public, he could only imagine what was going on behind closed doors. It probably involved less clothing than he'd seen in those pictures from the beach. He was sure Tony had a much better idea, making it that much worse for him to see her with another man.

Tony gave up on his objectless search and turned to McGee. "Find her yet?"

He minimized the bank of screens monitoring Poplyovin and brought up another window. He watched a few seconds of Ziva and Tushkevich walking, arms interlaced, along a sidewalk near the wharf. "As far as I can tell they left the harbor around 10:30 last night. That Polyp guy is in their hotel room right now clearing out their luggage. I guess we should try putting a trace on the SUV he's putting it in so we can track where it goes. Where are those GPS chips?"

"No idea. Can't we just give the plates to Interpol and let them follow the truck?"

"We're only supposed to be looking for Smerdyakov, not following Tushkevich. The Director was very clear about avoiding stepping on the CIA's toes too obviously. If we tag the SUV, we can follow it without calling too much attention to the fact that we're…"

Tony interrupted, "The CIA doesn't know where she is?"

"Not that I can find."

"Then they don't have anything." He sighed and flopped gracelessly onto the small sofa.

"It might be that it just isn't posted on their network yet."

"McGee, if it were there, I know you'd find it."

He tried not to let the despondency in Tony's tone affect the obvious compliment. McGee tapped at his keyboard, trying to will it into producing some results. "We'll find them, Tony. It's just a matter of time."

"Yeah."

Tony's moods had gotten darker the more they'd seen of Ziva. McGee hoped whatever she was doing was worth the damage she was causing to her relationship with Tony. As uncomfortable as it sometimes made him knowing they were involved, McGee was still rooting for them. He was secretly a fan of the happy ending. He smiled to himself.

"Find something?" Tony was looking at him expectantly.

"Huh? No. Why?"

"You were smiling like a Cheshire cat."

"I was just thinking about, um, the, uh new PlayStation?"

"Try again, McFibber."

He sighed, knowing that it probably wasn't the best time for a deep but manly conversation about relationships. "Do you really want to know?"

"You weren't looking at those CIA photos again, were you?"

"No! I was thinking about the two of you together."

"McGee!" Tony stood and stepped back a few paces.

"Not like _that_, just, y'know, as a couple. Before she left things seemed like they were really going well for you guys."

"They were," he stated with conviction. His confidence ebbed as he became more thoughtful. "Or maybe they just felt like they were because she knew it couldn't last. Did you know she'd known when she was leaving for weeks? Jenny said that Moussad told her while she was still in the hospital." He came back to the sofa and collapsed with his head in his hands. "The day that I finally saw her I had to wait in the hallway because some Israeli guy was in there talking to her, some Officer from Moussad. What if that's why she got involved with me, because she knew it would be over quickly?"

McGee was unsure how to respond. In spite of all the things he might question about Ziva and her motives, he'd always thought her pursuit of Tony was genuine. If she'd been interested only in sex, it would have happened long ago. Something other than Gibbs' rules had held her back. McGee suddenly spotted an answer hanging around Tony's neck. "If that's true, why would she leave you her necklace?"

His hand immediately sought the charm inside his shirt. He gripped it in a tight fist as he said, "Yeah, well Tushkevich bought her a nice new one to wear to the casino. Did he take a submarine down to the _Titanic_ to get that damn thing?"

"Huh?" McGee knew the allusion, but thought he could elevate Tony's mood if the conversations turned to movies.

"Y'know, the old lady throws the big diamond into the ocean at the end. I always thought that was kinda dumb – I mean she never once, in, like, eighty years told anyone she had it or tried to sell it? Please."

"Wasn't that supposed to be part of the whole 'never let go' thing?"

McGee knew he'd hit a nerve when Tony became introspective again. "She never once looked at me. I had to stare at her all night with that slick bastard all over her, and she never even looked at me."

"Maybe she didn't want to compromise you and Gibbs and Director Shepard. She was ignoring you to protect you or something." McGee paused, trying his best to come up with some sentiment that would make it all better. "Maybe…maybe she couldn't look at you. Maybe she knew if she looked at you she wouldn't be able to keep up the charade anymore and everything she'd sacrificed for would be lost. Seeing the real thing would make the fake look so unappealing that she'd…"

"Tim," Tony interrupted, "save it for the novel."

"Sorry, I just thought…sorry."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, McGee watching Poplyovin load the Range Rover, Tony staring into space. Out of the blue he laughed. "I feel like we just acted out a scene from a chick flick."

Before McGee could reply, he was distracted by something in the security footage. His laughter began with a snort and escalated.

"It wasn't _that_ funny, Probie."

"No, it's just…it looks like Gibbs has solved the problem of tracking the SUV." He rewound the footage and turned the computer so Tony could watch.

They were still laughingly analyzing the video when Gibbs and Director Shepard entered the room ten minutes later. "What's so funny?"

"Boss, did you know that Monte Carlo is one of the most secure cities on Earth? They have more surveillance cameras than you would possibly believe."

"And yet we can't confirm that Tushkevich was on the boat when it left last night."

McGee sobered slightly. "Uh, there's that. But there's also this."

He turned the computer so Gibbs and the Director could see it. On the screen, Gibbs crouched to conceal himself behind potted shrub manicured into an arbitrary animal. When Poplyovin turned his back, Gibbs executed a clumsy roll and reached under the front bumper of the SUV. His sleeve caught on something and he tugged hard to free his arm, whacking himself in the face as the fabric unexpectedly tore. He jumped up, looked around and walked out of frame with an exaggerated nonchalance.

"The live version was better, McGee." Director Shepard smiled. "It's a shame you ruined your jacket, Jethro."

"Not as big a shame as our lack of success."

"I take it no one at the dock could confirm that Tushkevich was on the yacht?"

"Did I mention the lack of success, DiNozzo?"

"Sorry, boss. So we still don't know if they sailed or drove, much less where they went."

"They didn't take that orange thing."

"Lamborghini Gallardo, boss."

"Whatever, DoNozzo. The local cops were involved in a car chase with that thing last night and found it abandoned in an alley this morning, keys in the ignition."

McGee heard Tony mutter, "And she told me it wasn't all car chases and…"

A knock on the door prevented McGee from hearing the last part of Tony's sentence. He and Gibbs had drawn their guns and were now moving to defensive positions as Director Shepard called out, "Yes?"

"Room service."

She opened the door on a uniformed man with a large cart. "We didn't order anything."

"This was sent up compliments of a Concetta Gioconda."

"When?"

The waiter consulted a notebook from his jacket pocket. "It was ordered yesterday afternoon, around 2 o'clock."

McGee looked at the faces of his companions. Only the Director seemed unfazed. "Leave it by the table, please."

"Yes, Madame."

When the waiter had left, she lifted several covers, revealing a variety of seafood and pasta dishes. "Looks like we're headed into Italy. Genoa, probably."

Tony hovered over her shoulder, looking longingly at the food. "You can figure out where they went based on some spaghetti and mussels?"

"Do you think Ziva was just worried we weren't eating well enough?"

His eyes lit up as he asked, "Ziva sent this?"

Director Shepard patted his arm. "She wants us to know where they're going or she wouldn't have used an alias she knows I know."

He grinned, seizing a plate and a fork. "Can I eat this or is it evidence?"


	15. Chapter 15

Tony pushed his sunglasses up his nose and stepped out of the old Land Cruiser they'd been driving since their arrival in Europe. His eyes scanned the harbor, but it was full of small fishing vessels, with no luxury yachts in sight. Just another beautiful Italian town and no beauty to enjoy it with him.

He'd been feeling much better about the situation with Ziva since she'd sent them dinner. The plate he'd eagerly grabbed had turned out to be what he'd suspected – porcini mushroom tortelloni in an almond and peach glaze. The chefs hadn't gotten it exactly right, but it was close enough for the message to be unmistakable. It was the last thing Ziva had made for him before she'd left, the night before he'd woken to an empty bed and her letter.

He'd made a face when she'd placed the plate in front of him. "What? You told me you wanted Italian."

"Yeah, but I was expecting something with red sauce and maybe some meatballs." He'd leaned down to sniff the food and been surprised by the sweetness of its smell. "Usually when someone says they're cooking Italian, you expect something traditional. Remember the first time you cooked for me?"

"After you locked us in that box all day?"

"You say that like you didn't have a good time. But, yeah. That veggie lasagna you made was great."

"Then maybe that's what you should have asked for." She'd picked up one of the tortelloni from his plate with her fingers and placed it in his mouth. It had taken him a moment to begin chewing because he'd been so engrossed with watching her lick her fingers clean. "Mmm…well? What do you think?"

"It's really good." He hadn't been lying about the food, but hadn't really been talking about it either. "Um, maybe I should try another one?"

She'd handed him his fork, but he'd gotten more chances to taste her during a creative dessert. The mere memory made him feel warm all over, despite the cool breeze blowing off the Mediterranean.

McGee's slightly whiny tone abruptly brought him back to reality. "They're not going to stop in a backwater like this. Do we even know what this place is? I can't figure it out from the map."

"I think the name ended in an 'o,' or maybe an 'a.'"

"Thanks, Tony, that's really helpful."

"Relax, Probie. You're just upset that they didn't make your Italian sub like they do in DC. You can't blame them for their confusion, really. Much like pizza, the Italian sub was invented in America by Italians."

He pounded on his upper chest a few times. "Whatever was in it isn't sitting quite right. There was some kind of really spicy meat in that thing."

"Ah, soppressata. One of my aunts once gave me a subscription to this sausage of the month club. It came from this Italian place in, like, Rhode Island or somewhere that made this really spicy stuff they called 'soupy.' Man, was that good."

"What does that have to do with how I feel?" He winced as he burped. "Excuse me."

"Just means I won't be getting you a sausage of the month subscription for your next birthday."

"I'd settle for a bottle of Pepto right now."

Gibbs yelled from his seat behind the wheel, "We're not here to sightsee, so if they're not there get back in the damn car!"

Tony took a last look at the quaint little town, wondering how many little old ladies dressed in black would appear if he shouted, "Nonni!" He jumped into his seat behind Jenny. The last thing he needed to do was upset a horde of Italian grandmothers.

As Gibbs pulled back onto the main road, Tony rolled down his window and closed his eyes. The air on his face smelled alternately salty, fishy and flowery. His thoughts wandered back to Ziva. Did she have any living grandparents? She never talked about her family, other than Tali. He had become more aware of the significance of that confidence as he'd spent more time with Ziva and discovered how little she tended to share. He'd found out about her father only because Jenny had mentioned the name. Come to think of it, almost everything he knew about her family he'd learned prior to her permanent assignment to the team. She hadn't breathed a word about them since moving to the US. _It's not like she's a sea turtle_, he thought. _I'm sure she'll start telling me about them at some point before I meet them, at least_.

His eyes shot open. When had he started thinking about meeting her family? Would she even want to introduce him to them? Just because the cultural and religious differences didn't matter to Ziva, it could still be a problem for her family. And what about his family? What would his father think of her? He rolled up his window; the Italian breeze was carrying too many distracting daydreams.

McGee was leaning forward, trying to argue Gibbs out of taking the next turn. "I'm just saying that, based on their previous itinerary, doesn't it seem more likely that they'll stop somewhere with more…anything?"

"Tushkevich wouldn't have tried to sneak out of Monte Carlo if he weren't concerned about secrecy. He knows we're watching him now, so he'll be more discreet," Gibbs replied. "He'll be likely to stop somewhere he doesn't think we'll check."

"But he'll still have to blend in. It's not like he can hide his yacht in one of these villages." Tony was impressed; McGee was not only standing up to an annoyed Gibbs, but he was making a lot of sense.

"Good point, McGee," Jenny said, apparently agreeing with Tony. "I think we should drive straight through to Sanremo and pick up the search there."

"Whatever you say, Madame Director."

"Don't test me, Jethro."

Tony opened his window again. W_hat the heck am I gonna say when I meet her father? Hello, Director David. Please don't have me assassinated for loving your daughter._

* * *

McGee twisted his neck around, trying to get his bearings in the descending darkness of the evening. Tony slapped him on the shoulder. "We're headed for the ocean, Probie. Just keep going downhill."

"I know, I'm just trying to figure out where we are in relation to where Gibbs and the Director are headed."

"Well, there are two main harbors, so they're somewhere on the other side of these buildings a few blocks over. Actually they're probably closer to the water because they haven't been stopping to wonder where _we_ are every five minutes."

"Well, the Director…"

Tony cut him off, "Try not to be so formal all the time. She's not gonna mind if you call her Jen or Jenny or even Shepard."

McGee didn't finish his interrupted thought as they came to the end of the street, which opened into a promenade along the water. A familiar figure sat on the patio of one of the nicer open-air cafés. "Tony…"

He was practically dragging McGee, walking much faster than he had been a moment before. "Just come on. The boat should be somewhere along that dock."

"Do we even need to find it now? We were just supposed to be finding out…"

"Yeah, but we should still find out where the boat is and slap one of those GPS dots on it so they don't give us the slip again."

They were silent as they walked along secure wooden dock. Even though it wasn't moving, McGee still felt a little seasick; he should never have finished that sandwich. He let out a long breath as he beckoned to Tony. "This is it. _Anastasiya Arkadyevna_," McGee read, peering at the stern, "out of Saint-Tropez."

"That's where he bought it last month."

"Think we should check it out?"

"We probably have time." Tony glanced back in the direction of the distant café. "They hadn't even gotten their food yet." He was about to take the wide step between the dock and the ship's deck when he stopped. "Wait. I thought I saw someone moving in the porthole."

"But no one should be on board. That Polyp guy went north with the Range Rover."

"And he's their only associate?" Tony took a few steps away from the boat. "Let's just give it a few minutes and see if anyone sticks their heads out or something. I'd like to keep the shooting to a minimum."

"But the Director, I mean, uh, Shepard said…"

"Jenny wouldn't want us to do something stupid. We can check out the boat once we know it's clear."

"But if we don't get that chance…" McGee reached over the side of the yacht, attaching the tracking dot in what he hoped was a hidden location. "Okay, let's go."

They were about to step off the dock onto dry land when an explosion rocked the harbor. McGee was thrown to the ground. He covered his head as fiery wreckage rained around him. As soon as he thought it was safe, he turned to find out what had happened. The _Anastasiya Arkadyevna_ had been reduced to a flaming ruin, taking half the dock with it when it blew, including the section where he and Tony had been standing less than a minute before.

McGee suddenly looked around him, realizing that he was alone. "Tony?" He stood and spun in place, looking in all directions. "Tony?!"

* * *

The burst of light from the explosion was followed closely by a reverberating boom. Most of the patrons and staff on the open patio of the harbor side restaurant left their tables and stations to investigate the source of the commotion, leaping in all directions as some bits of flaming debris landed in the street. Two diners were undisturbed by the tumult.

Dmitri poured two fresh glasses of wine from the bottle on their table. "Sounds like we will be driving back to Nice. I suppose that we could find an airport closer to…where are we?"

"Sanremo," Ziva supplied, sipping her wine.

"Do you mind the drive?"

"Not at all."

"It is a shame. I liked that yacht."

"Perhaps that will teach you not to name things after your mother." She slowly turned to observe the blaze in the marina, shielding her eyes and squinting to see men running around on the dock. "So that's why you left our trunks in Monte Carlo?"

"With all the spies on our tail it was only a matter of time before some of them became too bold. I had Ivan bring the trunks to the jet before we sailed. Would you have preferred an excuse to go shopping?"

"What would I have worn until we arrived somewhere with acceptable shops?" She twirled her fork in her spaghetti, creating a neat coil through the tines. She calmly chewed and swallowed before saying, "You should have told me what you were intending."

"You cannot tell me you are upset over the deaths of the men sent to destroy us."

"NCIS?" She drained her glass and held it up for Dmitri to refill.

He obliged, shrugging as he said, "Or the CIA. Or perhaps MI-5. Someone who should not have been trying to open our safe, regardless."

"There was nothing in that safe." She paused for another look over her shoulder. "Except enough C-4 to blow pieces of our boat almost 500 meters apparently."

He scoffed, "Whoever attempted to open it has learned a valuable lesson."

"Learning requires continued existence."

"Ziva, why are you so upset? Those people would kill us without a second thought as soon as it suits them, and that includes your friend Shepard. Do not tell me you are growing a woman's heart."

"Hardly." She raised her wineglass to her lips and took another sip, leveling a stern gaze at him. "But I wouldn't have left my diamond Rolex on the stand beside the bed if you'd bothered to tell me what you'd done. I do hope you intend to replace it."

He laughed. "Of course, my princess." She raised an eyebrow and smirked. They returned to their meal as the blaring sirens of the Carabinieri passed in the street, giving onlookers another reason to leap dramatically out of the way. The fire glowing in the harbor threw occasional shadows on the walls of the restaurant.


	16. Chapter 16

Ziva crossed her silverware on her plate and pushed her unfinished meal away. She had been glancing over her shoulder for the past ten minutes.

Dmitri watched her carefully. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes." The darkness, combined with the glow from the blaze and the pulsating fire engine lights, made it difficult to make out clear features near the dock. He tossed a small pile of euro on the table, far more than the cost of the meal. She leaned down to retrieve her handbag, containing all her documents and her Jericho 941. She took a moment to steady herself and stare at the pier. "I take it you already have a car waiting?"

"I took the liberty of purchasing a vehicle yesterday."

"Were we just going to wait in Sanremo until someone blew up the boat?"

"Ziva!" he hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. "There are Carabinieri everywhere. Watch what you say."

"I'm sorry, Mitya." She stumbled slightly on the uneven cobblestones of the street. "This was just unexpected. You know how I hate ambushes. And the wine…I think I've had a little too much."

He smiled, relaxing his hold on her from a tight grip to a gentle pressure. "Yes, I have never known you to indulge in more than two glasses. I am sorry for this. I should have told you in advance." He stopped to pull her into an embrace. She returned his kiss with comparable passion. "Am I forgiven?"

"Next time…"

"I will tell you beforehand." He took her hand and led her further up the street, away from the harbor. He laughed. "At least I will not have to fight with you over who will drive."

She leaned more heavily on him and turned her head to gaze toward the fire. They were too far away to make out details as they rounded a building, blocking the scene from view.

* * *

"I'm fine, McGee!" Tony shouted, shaking slimy globs of seaweed from his hands as he treaded in the filthy, brackish water. His shoes were heavy. And ruined. He was so far beyond furious.

"Tony!" McGee's relieved face appeared over the edge of the dock six feet over Tony's head. "How did you get down there?"

"I don't know, Probie. One minute I was standing on the dock and the next I was swimming down here." His shirt billowed around him in some places, stuck to his skin in others. His pants dragged through the water, making each kick require more effort. He couldn't even think about the bunchy discomfort of his boxers at the moment. "Maybe it had something to do with that _big fucking explosion_!"

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Do you see a ladder anywhere?" He spit out a mouthful of oily water. It left one of the more disgusting aftertastes it had ever been his displeasure to experience.

"Uh, no. Maybe it would be easiest if you swim over to the beach."

He turned to look at the sandy expanse, about 200 yards distant. "Right."

"I'll meet you over there."

"Sure, McGee." At least he wouldn't have to swim the entire way in his sodden clothes. Once he got out of the designated boating area the shore would likely assume a more natural underwater topography and he'd be able to slog through the water to the beach, where he would promptly collapse and possibly cry.

He stopped after a few strokes to struggle out of his shirt. Getting his shoes off was even more awkward, but he managed it. He wrapped them in his shirt, placed the bundle on his chest and began a lazy backstroke toward the beach. There was going to be too much time to think between getting there and now. _Her hair was up, but a few curling tresses had escaped to trail down her neck._

He tried to focus on the sky, but the clouds formed a uniform blanket of grayish purple, blocking out the stars. _She was sipping red wine._

Gibbs and Jenny would have heard the explosion. They were probably headed in this direction. They might even be standing with McGee by the time he arrived on the beach. _She was wearing a blue shirt with long sleeves and a scoop neck, the kind of thing you could buy at the Gap for thirty dollars or from a boutique for three hundred. _

He was halfway there. He dropped his feet to search for the bottom. Standing, the water came to the middle of his chest. He began a long trek to dry land. _White pants were acceptable all year round on the Mediterranean coast. Her legs were crossed and the top one was fidgety, her toes bouncing her backless shoe against her heel._

Sharp rocks littered the seabed, digging uncomfortably into his feet as he trudged through water that felt colder now than it had five minutes before. _She wasn't touching the bread in the basket on the table_.

Only McGee was standing on the beach waiting for him. He tossed the parcel of his shirt and shoes on the sand, sitting wearily beside it. _She made eye contact with me. She let me go anyway._

"I am such an idiot," he muttered. He ignored whatever McGee was saying to deny that statement. He unclasped her necklace and placed it in his pocket. Throwing it into the ocean wouldn't make the same statement that returning it personally would. Or maybe he would do her the same courtesy she'd done him and send it in an envelope with a goodbye letter. He was not going to cry.

* * *

McGee had the distinct impression that Tony wasn't listening to him. He sat down in the sand next to him and lapsed into silence. He eventually wrapped an arm around Tony's shoulders.

"Yellow light, Probie."

McGee didn't buy the cheap joke, but dropped his arm, glad to at least have Tony's attention. "In that café, you saw…"

"Yeah."

"Do you think she saw us?"

"Yeah."

"But she wasn't even looking…"

"She saw us."

"Maybe she didn't."

"She almost blew us up, Tim. She saw us and she didn't warn us and I'm an idiot."

This was not what McGee had expected. He wanted Tony to allay his doubts, to convince him through the mere force of his conviction that Ziva was still on their side. "Why are you…"

"Because she looked at me! She looked into my eyes and she didn't give me any sign that we were about to get killed."

"Tony, she may not have known."

"How could she not know?" He buried his face in his hands.

McGee was about to reply, but jumped up when he saw a uniformed policeman approaching them. A quick visual sweep told him all he needed to know – the local LEOs were interviewing witnesses. The officer walked up to them, looking distastefully at Tony, still bowed forward holding his head, before addressing himself to McGee. "Che cosa avete visto?"

"No Italiano." McGee struggled to remember some phrases that could help him. He pointed toward the fire. "No visto niente. Uh, mio amico drank," he mimed drinking from a cup, "uh, molto vino. Jumped," he mimed a diver, "in il Mediterraneano." He grabbed Tony under the arm and pulled him up, giving him a few pats on the shoulder. "We'll just, uh, andiamo to nostro hotel."

The officer shouted to an approaching colleague. "Soltanto turisti omosessuales." The man laughed in response and walked back toward the dock. The officer turned back to McGee. "Okay, Americani. Buona notte."

McGee grabbed Tony's shirt and shoes from the sand and grasped his elbow, tugging him toward the street. They stopped at a bench so Tony could put his shoes on. McGee remained standing, scanning the scene. "I'm surprised Gibbs and Shepard haven't arrived yet."

"They're over there talking to that waitress with the mustache and unibrow."

McGee looked and saw that Tony was right. The waitress was exceptionally ugly. More importantly, she was speaking to their teammates. He waved. Gibbs pointed uphill. "I guess he wants us to head back to the hotel."

"Probably figures it will look weird if the cops see us asking questions after questioning us." Tony stood and started walking up the nearest street. "We'll just go back to the hotel and jump in a luxurious bubble bath before we give each other pedicures," he lisped in a feminine voice.

"What?"

"Learn Italian, Probie. Once you're fluent we can laugh about why that joke was funny."

"Yeah." McGee tried to nod and shake his head at the same time. This night was already complicated enough without the addition of another language. It was a major issue if _Tony_ thought Ziva had betrayed them, and if she really had…treason carried a death sentence.

McGee wasn't quite ready to accept that eventuality. They were a block from the hotel when he finally said, "Tushkevich doesn't tell her everything. Maybe he set up a bomb or something on the boat as some kind of defensive thing. You said you saw someone in the porthole. Or maybe they were transporting some kind of explosive. They _are_ arms dealers."

"He! He's an arms dealer, not _them_. Not…her." Tony turned to look in the direction of the harbor. He reached into his pocket and took out the necklace McGee had watched him take off not long before. He slowly clasped it around his neck. "Not her," he exhaled. "Whew. Crisis of faith over. Should have tried the reverse psychology first, Probie."

"Uh, right. So you agree that she might not have known."

"If she'd known, she'd have warned us."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Mushroom tortelloni with almonds and peaches." Tony shrugged, palms up in surrender. "And I love her."

* * *

Ziva swayed on the steps into the plane. Dmitri, coming up immediately behind her, slipped an arm around her waist and propelled her forward into the cabin. She went straight to the liquor cabinet and retrieved a fresh bottle of wine and a glass. She tried to pour it without opening it. The corkscrew was almost beyond her comprehension.

He took both the bottle and sharp implement from her hands. "I think you have had enough to drink."

"Just pour me a glass, Dmitri."

"Ziva…"

"I said I'd like another glass of wine!" She crumpled into the small sofa on the plane. Her voice became pleading as she held out her glass. "Please, just pour."

He gave her a half a glass. "Tell me what is bothering you, my princess."

A dismal cackle burst from her mouth. She drained her glass and held it up for more. "What if I had tried to open the safe? We both could have been killed because you couldn't take five seconds to tell me about your little surprise for N…anyone who tried to open it."

He sighed and poured her a full glass. "I changed the combination. You could not have opened it." She didn't look at him, but concentrated on her rapidly emptying glass. "Do you honestly think I would risk your life when I have just gotten you back? I love you, Ziva."

"But you don't trust me."

"I never said that."

"It isn't always about what you say." She swallowed a final drink and threw the glass at the wall of the cabin with as much force as she could muster. It shattered into innumerable pieces.

The plane picked up speed and lifted off. When they had achieved some altitude, she climbed into Dmitri's lap, pressing her face into his neck. He'd recently changed his cologne at her request. She inhaled deeply before saying, "I think you were right, Mitya. I've had far too much to drink."

* * *

A/n: My Italian is extremely limited, so I've relied on the questionable expertise of Babel Fish. 


	17. Chapter 17

A/n: I could have italicized to indicate inner monologue, but lord knows no one wants to read an entire chapter in italics. This is the last chapter until the ghost of Christmas present grows old and fades away.

* * *

I can't sleep. I want to, but I can't. Every time I close my eyes the room starts to spin and I have to hold on to something to stop myself from falling, even though I'm lying in bed. My fingers twist into the sheets with the same intensity I don't always have to fake. Friction is friction.

Tonight was real. Guilt rises with bile at the thought. Or maybe guilt causes the bile to rise. Either way, I can't stay here, in this bed, any longer.

I stumble to the bathroom, closing the door with a force I immediately regret. I hope I haven't woken Dmitri. I need to be alone. The marble tile is cold on the soles of my feet, and then my shins as I kneel in front of the toilet. I've reached the point where I really, really want to throw up. I'm not going to feel better until I've gotten some of the vodka out of my stomach. I'll feel better for at least half an hour if I vomit now.

How do I even know this? I'm not a drinker. I never have more than one cocktail or two glasses of wine, maybe a couple of beers while being 'forced' to watch basketball or football with Tony. I still don't know the difference between the cornerback and the quarterback. Or I pretend not to. I like seeing him mildly frustrated.

Liked.

I waited too long, but I was so scared. Me, scared of something I knew I wanted. Good things aren't supposed to be frightening.

He was scared, too. All it really took was scaring him more. I practically had to die before anything happened. Maybe it would have been better if I had died.

I convince myself that it's a dry heave and not a sob.

The vodka was supposed to make me forget how much I miss him. All of them, but especially him.

Before this week started, I'd been drunk a grand total of once in my entire life.

Funny. I was here then, too. My father had emailed me to let me know my mother had died. I don't remember anything of that night, other than a very specific image of Dmitri waving his gun at the doctor he'd called to treat my alcohol poisoning. I haven't dropped that low yet.

Yet.

I allow my head to rest on my forearms. The toilet bowl smells like lemons and chlorine. It's not wholly unpleasant.

How can I get lower than enjoying the smell of a toilet?

I laugh and it sounds loud echoing off the porcelain. What was I thinking about? Drinking is bad for the memory – forgetting things that should be remembered and remembering things best forgotten.

I hadn't expected my mother to die; my father had mentioned her illness only in passing. He wanted me focused on the mission. She'd gotten sick right after I'd gone under with the Molot and I hadn't had a chance to see her. Cancer. It's always cancer in these situations – a lingering death that gave me enough hope to assuage fears that I wouldn't get there in time. She had already been buried for six months when I finally got home.

I've only visited her grave once. The small pile of stones I've left on Tali's grave, just to the left, has not grown since that day. I used to go see Tali once or twice a year. My guilt for failing to visit in the last days of my mother's life keeps us all separated in death. I sometimes doubt that my father and I deserve internment with such pure souls. I know he doesn't visit either.

It goes without saying that Ari is not buried in the same cemetery. I have never left a stone on his grave. Gibbs has been the marker, the symbol of remembrance in my brother's case.

If I ever see Gibbs again, I know he'll shoot me.

I know he isn't the one who shot at us two days after we arrived in Paris. Gibbs wouldn't have missed. Dmitri and I were leaving some fashionable restaurant and a bullet sent red brick dust spraying the sidewalk where I'd been standing less than a second earlier. It impacted the wall at head-level. We have been under voluntary house arrest every night since then. I can't even enjoy our view of the Eiffel Tower at night because we have to keep the shades closed. Snipers.

Maybe that's why I've been drunk for the past week. I don't have any other option to drown the guilt. I can't go shopping and I can't socialize after the sun goes down. It won't be long before daylight is no longer safe.

It probably doesn't matter. The only people I see regularly are Dmitri, Ivan and that pig Smerdyakov. He's taken to kissing my hand every time we meet. Dmitri thinks it is a mark of respect; I see it only for the perverse gesture it is. I'm used to being ogled, but Smerdyakov's attentions are sickening.

I flush the toilet and the scent of lemons and chlorine replaces the less pleasant one. Chlorine. I've always liked the smell. It reminds me of the pool where I taught Tali to swim.

I don't deserve to think about her now. I conduct business with terrorists, over the phone and in person. Sometimes they come to us and sometimes we go out to meet them, but only in broad daylight, and only in the bulletproof BMW. The Lamborghini Murciélago he promised me sits in the garage, yet to be driven. It's blue. Dark blue metallic.

This is all so much better than what I deserve. I should be suffering in more ways than self-inflicted sickness from drinking.

McGee is dead. Tim. Awkward, endearing, brilliant Tim. He'll never find the perfect girlfriend he can shove in all of our faces. He'll never be convinced he's the great agent we all believe he is, despite our teasing.

We. Our. Pronouns are horrible. I reach for the silver handle and flush again.

He'll never look at me in shock when I reveal something about my life prior to NCIS. If I'd ever really wanted to kill him, I could have recited an autobiography and just given him a heart attack. Now it's too late and Special Agent Timothy McGee is gone.

No one would accept a reason for that. Even if I could go back, and survive Gibbs and Jen's wrath, Abby would kill me, making sure she left all the forensic evidence necessary to convict. She would never be tried and that would be justice.

Justice. Justice would be Tim alive. And…

This time my gag reflex doesn't quit as I throw up. If I can't accept Tim's death, how can I even begin to process Tony's? My body can't accept it, much less my mind.

Dmitri is suddenly holding my hair, stroking my back. I never even heard him come into the bathroom. "Ziva, you have to stop drinking. What can I do to make this better?"

Nothing. There is nothing, nothing, nothing Dmitri can do to make me feel better. And I feel guilty about that too, because I know he genuinely loves me. Even if he'll never trust me completely, that's something. My face feels warm as I look up at him. I say the only thing that pops into my head. "When are we getting married?"

"Is that what you are worried about?" He kisses my forehead. "Ask me again when you are sober."

"What will the answer be?"

He kisses the top of my head this time. "Right away."

I get sick again almost immediately. "I love you," I mutter, head still hanging over the toilet. I reach up to flush it, though it's empty save the words I've just uttered. Lying isn't so hard.

I can't hurt anyone with lies. Lies just represent a betrayal. Betrayal requires trust. And love.

Everybody I love is dead.


	18. Chapter 18

Abby clicked on the email icon on her desktop. There were a few pointless interoffice memos, a message from Carter in the evidence locker that probably didn't involve evidence and a message from Agent Lee, who, rumor had it, hadn't left her desk without a witness to prove she hadn't been sneaking off to see Jimmy since the elevator incident. There was nothing from McGee, nothing from Director Shepard. Abby had spoken to the Director briefly five days previously, but she hadn't heard anything from McGee, Gibbs or Tony since they'd left almost a month ago. The Director claimed they were 'fine.'

If they were fine they'd be in the squad room solving the McLaughlin case, instead of leaving her to deal with the inveterate shenanigans of the utterly inept team Fake Director Quincy had brought in. He was probably the only person doing a worse job than they were. If she got one more memo with a reminder about this or that regulation…

Abby closed her email and turned to Bert. "Change sucks. Yeah, yeah, I know it's only temporary, but it's been a _month_! I'm worried about Gibbs and McGee and Tony. And Ziva, too! At least we know that everyone else is supposedly safe with the Director, but God only knows what super spy girl is up to. I just wish they'd all come back so everything could get back to normal." She looked down at her pink cardigan, gray wool dress pants and sensible shoes. "Okay, that wish is probably more selfish that I want to admit, but still, the agency is really going down the tubes without them. Aren't you worried?"

"Worried about what, Abby?"

She turned to see Ducky holding a clipboard and standing in the doorway in his scrubs. "Didn't you get the memo about wearing medical and/or laboratory apparel in the corridors? I got a formal notice not to wear my lab coat anywhere but the lab."

"Yes, well I'd like to see Quincy explain firing me over dressing for my job to Gibbs and Director Shepard when they return. I see you're still fighting the good fight with your hairstyle."

Abby stroked her pigtails, the only part of her look she hadn't been forced to alter. "The dress-code Nazi let me keep 'em after I almost 'accidentally' dipped a few unrestrained locks in a beaker of HCl while she was here lecturing me on the inappropriateness of skulls in the workplace. She wouldn't listen to my argument about why this is possibly the most suitable place for a person to wear skulls on their clothing. She walked out right before I had to start telling her about phrenology."

"Ah, my favorite branch of pseudoscience. Sometimes I wish it _were_ so simple just to analyze a person's skull and have a complete picture of his personality. You would know if he were compassionate or logical or murderous or…"

"No need to fill me in, Ducky. I've read a Brontë novel or two in my time."

"Odd. I always figured you for a Shelley girl."

"How cliché. Next you'll be recommending a book by some guy named Stoker you think I'd like."

"I would never be so presumptuous. But, to business – do you have the DNA results on the McLaughlin case yet?"

"Not yet. Another half an hour or so, I hope." He nodded and turned to leave, but she called after him, "Ducky? Wait?"

"What is it dear?"

"Have you been getting weird requests from the Director lately?"

"Just the one, but that was a few weeks ago. I did tell you about that photo she sent me, didn't I?"

Abby knew exactly what he meant; they had so little to go on in discussing the team's whereabouts and mission that they'd hashed over the rare details they possessed, ad nauseam. She offered him a seat anyway and pulled Bert into her lap. "Refresh me."

"Without a Caf-Pow? Very well." He settled into the chair and took a few moments to get comfortable. "She faxed me a photograph of a man's bare chest and asked me about a scar on his left pectoral muscle. She wanted to know if a bullet wound in that location would have been survivable."

"What did you tell her?" Abby said her line with curiosity and a tinge of impatience. It was a well-rehearsed play.

"That it was impossible to ascertain just from the photograph. There are too many variables – angle of entry, for example," he finished. She prompted him with a twirl of her hand. "And what kind of things has the Director been asking you to do, Abby?"

"Well, I've already told you about most of the little things she's asked for," she paused and smiled sweetly, "but most recently she sent me a sample of fiberglass, like from the hull of a boat, and asked for an analysis of the chemical residue on it. I told her I thought it had been exposed to large-scale detonation of C-4."

"And what did she say?"

"Just, ' Thanks.' Do you think it has something to do with what Gibbs and Tony and Tim are doing with her in Europe?"

"Well, she wouldn't be asking questions just for fun, Abby."

"Something's going on. First Ziva gets called back to Moussad even though she, like, just got shot and then the Director takes the A-Team to France. They never call to check in, not even just to say hi. Whatever's going on is serious."

"Indeed."

She sighed and shook her head. "Because if it weren't serious they wouldn't be keeping us in the dark?"

"Forgive me dear, but I think we've been having virtually the same conversation every day, sometimes twice a day for the past month."

"Not true, Ducky. We haven't talked about the evidence from the Zamansky murder at all and I just added the fiberglass parts last week, so we know they're somewhere in Europe that involves boats and explosions. I ran a computer search of news items from a week ago and there were three with exploding boats, so I guess it wasn't a good week to be a mariner. One happened in France, one happened in Greece and the last one was in Italy. Now, the Italian one looks like it might be our boat, because the fiberglass…"

"Abby, I'm sorry, but I can't go over this again. We just have to accept that we don't know what's happening."

She pouted, but knew she wouldn't get any further with him today. She could only push so hard. No matter how much better she had convinced herself the circular conversations made her feel, she was willing to concede Ducky's point – they really didn't know anything. She placed Bert on the table and said, "We'll meet back here and discuss this more tomorrow."

"And what are we going to do tomorrow, Abby?"

"Same thing we do every day, Ducky – try to take over the world!"

"Hm. Well, it will relieve the monotony of trying to figure out what Gibbs and the team are up to." He walked toward the door. "I miss them too, Abigail."

She waved and squeezed Bert so he could give a proper farewell. When she was sure Ducky had gone, she went back to her computer. No new messages.


	19. Chapter 19

McGee watched the screen of his laptop, bored with their new hotel and car-based stakeout duties. They had been lying low, staying off the CIA's radar and monitoring Smerdyakov from a distance. They had enough to arrest the man at any time, but Shepard had decided to let him roam for now. He had taken up residence in the servants' quarters, located in a basement apartment of Ziva and Tushkevich's house. McGee had the feeling she was going to let him be as long as he stayed close to them.

Director Fitzgerald of the CIA had been very colorful in his warnings to them to stay away from the couple, citing everything from jurisdiction to operational control to playground chants of 'we were here first.' For the time being, Shepard wasn't blatantly challenging him. It turned out that the movement Tony had seen in the porthole of Tushkevich's yacht two weeks earlier, the thing that had possibly saved their lives, had been two CIA operatives gathering intel on the Molot. They had been attempting to force the onboard safe when the explosion had occurred. Any agency would be expected to take the loss of agents personally.

Fitzgerald blamed Ziva, saying that she would be eliminated as soon as a practical opportunity presented itself, and again threatened Shepard and the agency. Asking the CIA for help finding Smerdyakov was impossible but the NCIS team managed to track him to Paris on their own, arriving the day after one of Fitzgerald's men had shot at Ziva in the street and, thankfully, missed. Since McGee had set up the camera in a tree across from the front door, Tony had settled into a pattern of relaxing when they were sure Ziva was in the house and becoming frantic when she went out.

The objective of Ziva's whole mission was getting blurrier to McGee the more time he spent watching the video feed. She'd had plenty of opportunities to kill Tushkevich, so that couldn't be her only goal, if it were a goal at all. If she were collecting information, it wasn't being shared with NCIS. Other than staying in at night, she was still acting like she was on vacation, going out to expensive restaurants and occasionally shopping. Gibbs and Shepard had spent a day following her through the Musée d'Orsay as she and Tushkevich received a personal tour from the museum's Director, with Poplyovin and Smerdyakov tagging along.

A few days later, Shepard had dropped an issue of _Le Monde_ in front of them all, saying, "Even arms dealers support the arts." The article detailed a large gift from anonymous donors whose only condition had been a tour of the facility they were so generously supporting. The gift would be going to a new display hall for the museum's growing collection of Degas and Monet masterpieces.

If the money were flowing so freely, McGee didn't need much imagination to figure out where it was coming from. Employing facial recognition software that made him miss working with Abby more each time he used it, he had identified over ten men entering the house or meeting with Tushkevich at various restaurants as known terrorists. McGee was starting to doubt whatever good Ziva could do in this situation would eventually outweigh the damage.

Shepard had yet to make contact with Director David. He seemed intent on avoiding any communication with her. Despite her assurances that this meant everything was going according to plan, it didn't serve to calm anyone's nerves; they didn't know 'the plan,' assuming it even existed.

McGee covered his mouth as he yawned. The camera they had trained on the townhouse occupied by Ziva and Tushkevich hadn't picked up anything other than one of the CIA teams pretending to make a delivery of a case of wine. It had been rejected by Poplyovin at the door. The normal deliveryman who brought the vodka and groceries never went to the front door, but the service door in the alley. McGee found it funny that he had figured that out, but the CIA could make such a dumb mistake. They probably didn't even know NCIS was watching the house.

Make that definitely. Fitzgerald hadn't called Shepard to yell at them about it, so they definitely didn't know. So much for being on the same side.

He leaned back, tilting his chair on two legs. "I read somewhere that the Russian word for water is vodka. So how do you order water in Russia and not get vodka?"

Tony, stationed in a car up the street from the house, said over the radio, "How does a Spanish person order seltzer and not get salsa?" Ziva hadn't left the house since the day before.

"If you want vodka, you order by brand, Elf Lord. Don't you ever get out?" Gibbs slammed a closet door and paced around the room. He had been angry ever since Shepard had told the hotel staff to replace everything in the minibar with bottled water. He eventually leaned over McGee's shoulder to squint at the screen. "Anything going on?"

"Uh, no, but there is something I'd like to know. Tony adds _Seinfeld_ to his ever expanding library of media quotes and I'm the one accused of being a homebody?" By this point McGee had spent enough time in close quarters with his boss to be less intimidated. He hoped the new confidence wouldn't just be temporary; as far as he knew, there was no rule about things that happened in Europe staying in Europe.

Gibbs only glared in response. Tony's voice came over the speakers, "Two reasons for that, Probie. One, you knew what I was referencing and two, you just used the word 'homebody.' You're a fifties housewife. Break out the Wonder Bread and Ovaltine."

McGee waited for him to continue before countering, "No argument for why they should call it Roundtine?"

"Enough with the snappy patter, you two."

"Boss, he started it and I was just…"

"Look at the damn screen, McGee." The black BMW had pulled up to the front door. Poplyovin opened the rear door as Tushkevich exited the house. He waited, speaking to Poplyovin as Ziva proceeded from the house to the car.

Tony's low whistle sounded funny over the radio. "Hot damn." She was visible for only seconds, but McGee couldn't disagree with Tony's assessment. It was so much easier to see Ziva as a woman from a distance than up close. He'd found himself feeling jealous of Tony on more than one occasion since Fitzgerald had sent them those surveillance photos a month ago.

Tony hadn't expressed a single doubt about Ziva since his brief episode in Sanremo. If anything, he was more committed to the idea of her than ever. A strange sense of foreboding low in his stomach made McGee wonder if he were developing his own Gibbs-gut.

* * *

"They're _leaving_, Jenny! Start the car!"

Jenny understood Tony's concern, but she was tired of having this argument with him. "Smerdyakov didn't get into the car, so we're not following it."

"But…"

"Have I not been clear on this, Agent DiNozzo? The CIA has already lost two men on this op and they are pissed off, mostly at us. Officially, we're here to keep an eye on Smerdyakov and nothing else."

He folded his arms over his chest as they watched the BMW speed away. They lost sight of the car as it rounded a corner, but regained a visual as it crossed a bridge, eventually disappearing behind a building. Tony sank down in his seat and sulked silently. He got like this every time someone told him they wouldn't be following Ziva.

Truthfully, Jenny wished they could. It was only a matter of time before the CIA started shooting at her in broad daylight. Director Fitzgerald was getting more uncompromising by the hour. The last time she had spoken to him he had practically threatened violence against the NCIS team if they got in the way. She was surprised her assurance that they would be leaving as soon as they could arrest Smerdyakov, after the final analysis of the evidence was delivered.

Something about the situation didn't feel right. Jenny had been careful to restrict the team's interaction with Washington, ordering them not to contact anyone at NCIS in the interest of preventing accidental leaks and speaking only about the Zamansky case on the rare occasion she did call the main office. Even if all their data had remained classified, Fitzgerald had to know the evidence had yielded all its information weeks ago. It was possible he wasn't as heartless as he seemed; she suspected it was more likely he wanted them present for what he saw as Ziva's inevitable defection. The vindictive bastard certainly enjoyed alluding to an unavoidable call for Jenny's own dismissal, as he put it.

She gave a self-righteous sniff. When Ziva got out with whatever she was looking for, she'd be able to convince Moussad to give them a few hints, at the very least, to prove that it was all worth it. The CIA understood the loss of a few to save the many. She glanced to her right. Loss could be measured on different scales.

Jenny spoke into the microphone attached to the laptop Tony had placed on the dashboard. "We're signing off for now. You guys take a break. Get some food or take a nap. We'll check in if there's any movement from the target." She didn't wait for a response from Gibbs and McGee before breaking the connection. She took a deep breath and turned to Tony. "Ziva can take care of herself…"

He avoided eye contact. "Yeah, that's what everybody tells me."

"Would you let me finish? Yes? As I was saying, Ziva can take care of herself, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be worried. She's involved with dangerous people and she's playing them. She's capable and poised, but she's not infallible. There is always a chance that they're going to turn against her."

"Did they teach you how to comfort people at Director school? 'Cause you suck at it." He snorted. "Wish I could take credit for that one, but it's actually adapted from…"

She interrupted, "Tony, if you can't take this seriously…"

"I am taking this seriously, Jenny!" He slammed his hand against the dash, causing the laptop to fall on his legs in the foot-well. He cursed, but the pain in his lower legs seemed to calm him slightly. Jenny knew the feeling; pain was always easier to cope with if its cause was clearly identified and resolvable. He replaced the computer then rubbed his shins as he continued, "I'm the one who wants to follow her, to make sure she's okay when she leaves the fortress over there. Screw all this 'Ziva can take care of herself' crap. If Tushkevich finds out that she's not really on his side, I want to be there to make sure he can't hurt her."

Jenny had a flashback to the hospital ICU: Tony sitting at Ziva's bedside, kissing her forehead before he left the room. Jenny hadn't heard the story about his abortive attempts to visit again until much later, but it had certainly made her understand his apprehension when she'd talked to him in the hallway. "You're afraid that she's going to get shot and you're not going to be there to stop it? Or save her?"

His laugh was sad and pitiful. "That's me, movie hero DiNozzo, ready and willing to rescue the damsel in distress. Except she's more capable of getting herself out of distress than I am and she'd probably smack me for calling her a damsel. So please explain to me why I'm so worried!"

"Because you love her, Tony." Jenny was careful not to make it a question.

He looked at his watch, then out the window. "It seems my hour is up. Why don't we leave that for next week."

She laid a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Even though I'm the Director, I'm not such a stickler for the rules as Gibbs. Ziva is my friend, and I know how hard this has been on me, so I can only imagine what you're going through."

He exhaled loudly. "I never told her."

Jenny took a moment to figure out what he meant. The answer seemed obvious when she came to it. "I'm sure she knows."

"It's not the same." He fiddled with something on a chain around his neck. "Tushkevich tells her all the time. That night in Monte Carlo, in the casino? I heard him say it at least three times."

"Talk is cheap. Do you think Tushkevich would sacrifice his business to spend weeks helping her recover from a gunshot wound like you did?"

"You're so sure he wouldn't?"

"She didn't stay to take care of him. I think he'd return the favor, given the opportunity."

"She thought he was dead. And her life was probably in danger too."

Jenny opened her mouth to reply, but Tony had made a good point. Ziva had been so sure when she'd reported that Tushkevich was dead, but she'd also just killed Grigory Selfin, who had a good deal of influence in the Molot. Haste and self-preservation could explain the error that had cemented Ziva as a traitor in Director Fitzgerald's eyes. Had Jenny used that argument with him yet? She shook her head and tried to focus on Tony, who had lapsed into a reflective silence.

His head suddenly popped up. "What if I'm wrong? What if I just think I understand how I'm feeling? What if I haven't been able to say the words because I'm afraid she'll see through a lie?"

"You don't really believe that."

"No." He sighed. "But I still should have told her."

"Don't dwell on it, Tony." She reached to retrieve the laptop from the dashboard.

"Because it won't help our mission?"

"There's that, but at the moment I'm more concerned that Smerdyakov appears to be on the move." The smallish man was tossing suitcases into the rear compartment of a small Citroën near the rear entrance of the townhouse. She clicked the microphone on and handed the computer back to Tony. "Gibbs, McGee are you two seeing this?"

McGee's tinny voice filled the car. "Yeah. Can you guys switch on the mobile camera? I don't have a great view from TreeTV." Even through the poor connection, the slap was audible. "Ow. Okay, that's better. I've got a clear plate number. Want me to send it to Interpol and the local LEOs?"

"Not yet, McGee. Let's see where he goes first." They didn't have long to wait. Smerdyakov had soon finished packing and sped away. After following him down a few sparsely traveled side streets, Jenny was rapidly maneuvering their small sedan through midday traffic, making every effort to keep the Russian assassin in sight.

Tony had a tight grip on the roll bar. "Did Ziva teach this guy how to drive?"

"Never mind that. Which way did he go?"

"Left. Left!"

"That's a one way!"

"No, the next left!"

The car fishtailed as she made the turn. "Where is he?"

"There!"

"Don't point! Tell me!"

"Uh, uh, a right by that, uh, building covered in ivy."

"They're _all_ covered in ivy!"

"Where are we, Harvard?"

"Tony!"

"I don't fucking know where he went Jenny! You're the one driving!"

They drove around yelling at each other for ten more minutes, before Jenny had to admit they'd screwed up. She pulled into a parking space along the river. "Gibbs?"

His voice came over the radio, "Yes?"

"Send the plates out. Maybe someone will find the car."

"No problem, Jen. You two gonna come back to base?"

"Yes. We'll see you in a few minutes."

Tony stared out at the Seine. "Great. Now we've lost our guy and we let Ziva and Tushkevich get away."

Gibbs saved Jenny the trouble of shouting at him. "Just come back to the damn hotel, DiNozzo."

* * *

Ziva looked around the dark nave of the small church. Candles encased in red glass decorated some sort of shrine beneath an ornate statue of the Virgin Mary clad in a blue robe. A large pieta stood in an alcove to the right. The name of the church was engraved on a plaque by its entryway – Notre-Dame de Espoir. Our Lady of Hope.

Dmitri rushed down the central aisle. "The priest is putting on his vestments. Just a few more minutes."

She smiled. "I've waited three years, plus the week it took you to find the perfect rings. I can manage a few more minutes, I think." She took a moment to survey their surroundings. "But a Catholic church, Mitya?"

"We are in France, my princess. What else would you expect?"

"I suppose you're right. Who would look for us here?"

They shared a significant look as the priest beckoned them from the altar. Less than ten minutes later, Ivan held the door open for them to get into the car.

Dmitri pulled her close and covered her face with kisses. "Did you have a chance to look at the inscription inside your ring?"

"You didn't tell me you had them engraved." The ring came off her finger only with some effort. She squinted at the tiny Cyrillic script. "You know I don't read Russian."

"Well, it says the same as mine. Perhaps you will have better luck reading this." He took off his own plain platinum ring and handed it to her.

She examined the inner band. It was engraved with Hebrew characters. "Forever," she breathed. He held out his hand and she mimicked the act she had performed in the church not long before. He returned the favor, sliding her ring onto her finger. Her engagement ring felt unnaturally high on her left hand with her new wedding band under it.


	20. Chapter 20

A shaft of sunlight pierced through the closed blinds and landed on the corner of the puffy goose down pillow at the head of the large bed. It slowly traced a path across the clean white linen, creating glowing highlights in a mass of dark hair before shining on the eyelids of a sleeping woman. The hand that rose unconsciously to shield her closed eyes displayed two rings – one a sparkling diamond, the other a plain band.

In bed next to her, a man supported his head on his hand and watched her sleep. When she finally rolled away from the light, she collided with his chest and snuggled into it. He stroked her silken hair, allowing his hand to run down the length of her body. His fingers traced light patterns on her bronzed skin. Moving to her side, his hand found the swell of her breast, moved down the curve of her waist, ascended the rise of her hip, slid back to cup her buttocks. Still asleep, she pressed her hips against him, her smooth skin increasing the already aroused sensitivity of delicate flesh. He almost regretted the growing necessity of waking her. Almost.

He tucked a dark tress behind her ear, gently caressing the scar on her earlobe. She never mentioned the brief attention he always paid it, nor had she ever offered an explanation for its presence. He had never asked. He kissed the spot before trailing soft kisses along the side of her face. She woke slowly. "Mmm…morning."

He found her lips. "Morning."

"You should really go brush your teeth," she said laughingly, giving him a brief moment to enjoy her bright smile before burying her face in his neck as she nipped and sucked at his skin.

"Maybe in about, oh, say forty minutes or so?" He pushed her onto her back, climbing on top of her. His hands slid under her shoulders, pulling her closer.

"I can live with that." She drew up one of her legs, massaging the back of his calf with her foot. "I really hope that's not just your knee."

He smiled and kissed her again, more intensely this time. Her hand slipped between their bodies to guide him inside her. Their eyes met in the moment before they lost themselves in each other. "I love you," she whispered.

He had never heard anything more wonderful. "I love you too…Mrs. DiNozzo."

Tony woke with a start. He took a few shallow, panting breaths as he looked around the room. Hotel. Paris. Working. Gibbs. McGee. Mrs. DiNozzo? He looked around, patting the sheets just to make sure it had all been a dream. The only evidence that it had been real created a lump in the covers over his midsection.

He looked around the dark room. In the other bed, Gibbs' chest rose and fell with a regular rhythm. McGee snored faintly on the cot near the window.

Tony made his way to the bathroom quickly. The water in the shower was warm by the time he had shed his t-shirt and boxers. He stepped under the stream, relaxing slightly as it washed over him, heating his body. He closed his eyes and recalled his dream. Ziva DiNozzo. No, she wouldn't change her name. Maybe Ziva David-DiNozzo? He created a mental picture of her standing in front of him in the shower, her hands roaming over his slick skin. How long would they have to be together before he even dared to broach the subject of marriage? Would she even want to think about it?

This long-term relationship stuff was unfamiliar to him. He'd have to start with the basics. _The next opportunity I get I'm telling her. I'm gonna look into those perfect dark eyes and say it – Ziva, I love you. I love the way you say the wrong word. I love staring at you and having you stare back. I love your hands stroking my chest. I love the way you smell. I love the feel of your body. I love you. I…love…you._

He groaned softly and leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, wishing, as it seemed like he did every morning around this time, that Ziva were with him. _Soon._

His reverie broke as Gibbs pounded on the bathroom door. "You've been in there for fifteen minutes! Get out of the damn shower, DiNozzo! What are you, a woman?"

Tony shut off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist and surrendered the room to a scowling Gibbs, who slammed the door in his still dripping face.

"Guess he really had to pee." McGee was sitting up on his cot. He stretched his arms over his head and looked around the room. "You think we should clear a space?"

"For what?" Tony rubbed a hand towel over his head and hunted through his suitcase, looking for clean clothes. He settled on a shirt that didn't clash too horribly with his least favorite pair of pants. He wasn't sure why he'd bothered to pack his least favorite pair of pants – some sort of backup plan in case of a pants emergency? He was tempted to call the concierge and demand an explanation for why the hotel hadn't delivered his laundry yet.

McGee stood and adjusted his MIT shirt. "Don't you think he'd be a little more pleasant if we let him build a boat in here?"

* * *

Ziva felt the sheet twist tightly around her naked body as she rolled over in bed. Dmitri snored next to her. The wedding night had been enjoyable, but exhausting. She had screamed, 'Oh, God,' a lot. It was a habit she'd cultivated since returning to Dmitri; no one ever called God the wrong name by mistake.

She turned over again and nestled herself against his body. His arm draped over her shoulders, but he continued snoring. Being held was nice. She closed her eyes and inhaled. His cologne had faded too much for her to pretend. His scent was still nice – masculine, animal, but industrial too, like he had been constructed of metal, wood and leather, and coerced into life by some experiment. No, that wasn't fair. Dmitri was completely human.

He was her husband. _Why should that change anything? Why has it?_

She had been absently stroking his well-defined chest and stomach while thinking and he had awoken. He yawned. "Good morning, my princess."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." She moved up his body to kiss him.

"You do not have to apologize. I just hope you are not expecting very much. I am still quite tired."

"Me too." She settled her head on his shoulder, resuming the gentle movements of her hand on his chest and stomach. "Perhaps we could just stay in bed all day?"

"That sounds lovely, but we have some business to attend to this afternoon." The arm around her shoulders disappeared for a moment. When he replaced his arm, her Jericho 941 was in his hand. The metal was cold on her bare skin. "Guess what you are getting for a wedding present."

She inhaled sharply, forcing her body not to tense. "That's mine. You just took it from under my pillow."

"You will need it to collect your gift."

"Oh?" She reached up to seize the gun. He didn't resist giving it to her.

"If you so choose, you will use it to kill a traitor."

Her eyes opened wide for a moment. She gripped the pistol.

"Don't you want to know who?"

She grinned and hugged Dmitri fiercely. "Smerdyakov."

"Clever girl. How long have you known?"

"I didn't, but who else would you ask me to kill and consider it a gift?" She turned to slip the gun back under her pillow. He rolled with her, spooning her. "To whom has he betrayed us?"

"The CIA, I believe." He held her tighter, burrowing into her hair and kissing the back of her neck.

She reached behind her. "It seems as if you weren't as tired as you thought."

He twisted her willing body around to face him. "Call it the inspiration of being a newlywed."


	21. Chapter 21

Gibbs used all his restraint to prevent himself from kicking the door of Smerdyakov's abandoned car. The Parisian cops had found it parked illegally on a sloping sidewalk in Montmartre the previous night but failed to inform NCIS until this morning. The keys had been found in a gutter down the street. The car was empty and Smerdyakov had disappeared. With a twenty-four hour head start, the man could be virtually anywhere by now.

Jen was fighting with the local police commander, trying to secure his help. He was not being terribly understanding or cooperative. "Always gotta be the French," Gibbs muttered under his breath.

Tony's head popped out of the car's hatchback. "You say something, boss?"

"Did you _find_ something, DiNozzo?"

"I don't know." He leaped from the rear of the car with the undersized spare tire. "I found this."

"In a car. Wow, that took some real investigative skill."

Tony set the tire on the pavement and increased the size of a slice he'd already made through the rubber with his knife. "Well, I don't know about your doughnut, boss, but the one in my car isn't full of plastic bags of white powder."

Gibbs squatted and removed one of the bags. "Cocaine?"

"McGee's getting the field test kit right now. Didn't Interpol pick up Zamansky at some whorehouse slash international drug cartel HQ?"

"That's what," Gibbs paused as he tried to recall the man's name and failed, "French Ducky mentioned."

"You think the Molot was getting into drug trafficking? Maybe Ziva's trying to gather intel on the drug guys along with the arms guys?"

"I wouldn't say that too loud." Gibbs stood to see if Jen had heard, but she was still talking to the policeman. She wasn't going to like this new development. From everything he'd read about Tushkevich, Gibbs doubted he'd take a risk like expanding into a new sphere before solidly reestablishing himself in his comfort zone. It was possible Smerdyakov was working on his own. The NCIS team that had questioned the crew of the _Bunker Hill_ hadn't found anything suspicious about Zamansky's behavior aboard ship. If the case started pointing away from the Molot, they would have to follow it.

On the plus side, Jen would probably have to head back to DC. Gibbs wondered if he deserved a smack for that. Was it really so wrong that he wanted his team back? The flipside was that he wouldn't actually _have_ his team back until the whole situation with the Molot was resolved. This was all…somebody's fault.

"…until we get it to a lab, boss."

"Huh?" Gibbs hadn't even seen McGee approach, but he was kneeling by the tire with a drug testing kit and an open bag of the white powder.

"I said we won't know the purity or origin until we get it tested in a lab."

"Of the cocaine?"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Then why are you still standing there, McGee?"

"Well, we don't have a lab here."

"And you don't think someone else does?"

"Right. I am gonna talk to the local LEOs and ask to use their crime lab." McGee took a few steps toward a police cruiser before turning around. "And that'll be pretty impressive considering I don't speak French."

Gibbs shook his head in disbelief. "Then be sure you don't ask for Jen's help."

"My help with what?"

"Oh!" McGee's eyes widened before he turned. "Director. Hi. Uh, Gibbs wants to test the cocaine. In a lab, I mean. He wants the lab to test the cocaine is what I'm trying to say."

She raised her eyebrows in amusement. "No wonder you need help with your French, Agent McGee. Even your English seems to need some polishing."

He followed her, looking discomfited. Tony called after him. "Don't worry about it, Probie. You can always fall back to your native Geek Speak." He turned his attention back to the tire, from which he was still pulling bags. "There's gotta be pounds of this stuff in here."

"Kilos, Tony. The French are on metric."

"Well, I just meant there's a lot. And I really do mean _a lot_. Why'd he leave this much coke in the car?"

"How many suitcases did he have when he left?"

"Six or so. You think they were full of drugs too?"

"It's possible. He may have switched them to another car he had waiting here, or been forced into another car by people who didn't know about the drugs in the tire." Too many possibilities and none were settling right in his gut.

Tony adjusted his black NCIS cap. "Or maybe he just forgot."

"Forgot a dozen kilos of cocaine hidden in the spare?"

"He left a murder weapon covered with his prints at a crime scene. He just doesn't seem like the brightest bulb in the box, is all I'm saying."

Gibbs looked up and down the street. Tony had a point, but it still didn't feel… "Where did they find the keys?"

Tony consulted his notepad. "Uh, metal cover of a gutter grate thing. Marker number seven." They walked several dozen yards down the hill, toward a busier street. "Hey boss, does it seem like a lot of cabs are going by out there?"

They had a clearer view of the main street when they arrived at the grating where the keys had been dropped. Gibbs pointed to a sign where a row of taxis was lined up. "There's a cab stand by the corner."

"So he dumps his car near a place where he knows he can get a taxi, but he's got all those bags. Maybe he can't transfer the drugs because he's in a hurry, or doesn't have room, or thinks he has enough drugs or cash. Hey, you don't think he ripped off Tushkevich before he ran off? Because I get the feeling that would be even dumber than leaving the coke."

"Uh-huh. And you can't carry a spare tire into a taxi without attracting attention. That's nice work, Tony. And I was afraid I was gonna have to smack you."

"Just doing my job, boss. Does this mean we have time to stop at the Moulin Rouge?"

Gibbs raised his hand threateningly. "Don't tempt me, DiNozzo. We've gotta run down all the fares from yesterday afternoon through the time when the car was discovered."

"Right. We'll save the can-can for later."

* * *

Ziva sat on the couch, her legs folded under her, drinking espresso from a delicate china cup and saucer. "You said we will be taking care of Smerdyakov this afternoon?"

Dmitri, wearing only a pair of black running pants, sat in a chair, flipping through the television stations and eventually stopping on a football game on Eurosport. "Impatient, are we?"

"If he's talking to the CIA, the sooner we eliminate him the better."

"I said I suspected it was the CIA. I do not know for certain." He muted the television, took a bite of the Danish sitting on the plate next to him and sipped his coffee. "I had a feeling we might be dealing with his duplicity. Yesterday we had an unexpected delivery to the front door, which Ivan rejected, and Smerdyakov became very agitated. When I invited him to our wedding, he told me he did not want to come because he felt he would be intruding on the ceremony."

She walked to the small espresso machine and refilled her cup from the carafe. "And when would that pig ever deny himself the opportunity of seeing me dressed up?"

"Indeed. Did I tell you how beautiful you looked?"

She pulled up her robe to cover her knees as she resumed her seat. "Just as you seem to do every day."

"Only because it is always true. But to continue: as we were…otherwise occupied," he paused to lean over and kiss her, as if she needed reminding, "I asked Ivan to track him down. The stupid imbecile checked into the Hilton as Nikolai Gogol. He could not even pick an obscure author. He has to malign a real talent with his lack of creativity."

"I'm sure we can think of a fitting homage." She leaned back into the sofa cushions as she meditated. "I have it. Tell me, Mitya, do you think it hurts enormously to have one's nose severed?"

"It was never actually cut off, it just went missing one…Oh!" He raised his eyebrows. "Now why was that not the first thing to come into _my_ mind? Nasal amputation does sound quite painful, but I suppose it would depend on the method."

"I'll be using the dullest knife I can find in the kitchen, preferably a nice rusty one."

"I'll bring a loaf of bread and we can decide who gets the surprise with their breakfast." He sat beside her and took her cup and saucer, placing them on the table. "There is a slight complication that could arise."

She shrugged and reached for her cup, which was only half-empty. "We'll gag him and I'll bring a silencer."

"Jenny Shepard is also a guest at the Hilton."

Ziva carefully set down the cup she had just picked up, mindful not to place it too shakily on the saucer. "Smerdyakov has been talking to NCIS? But that doesn't make any sense. He killed their sailor; they'll want to arrest him. And Shepard…as far as I know she still thinks I'm feeding everything on our operation to Moussad."

"The very reason I want you to talk to her. We need to know what the Americans are up to."

"Oh, Mitya, I don't know if that's the best idea. When she finds out we've married…"

He cut her off, "She will think you are highly committed to your mission. Just listen for a moment. I agree that NCIS would not make a deal with Smerdyakov, but we should still find out what they know and possibly what the CIA knows. I am sure they are keeping tabs on their competition. And you can confirm that she still trusts you."

"And how do you suggest I do that? Shall I bring her a wedding photo?"

He grinned and kissed her hand. "Ivan has not had the copies made yet. We'll give her a cookie."

"A cookie?" Ziva contracted her brow. "No, we can't give her Smerdyakov. He'll talk."

"Hmm." Dmitri rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It is not a bad idea. We _could_ turn him over to NCIS. He doesn't know anything. Not really. Do you mind just hurting him severely instead of killing him?"

"Mitya, he knows everything I know. He'll lead them straight to the sub-basement of the townhouse and all of our product in Paris will be compromised!"

"Not all, my princess. It is time I told you about a special surprise."

* * *

Gibbs checked his watch and jogged up the hallway. He'd gone out for coffee over half an hour ago. That was excessive considering he hadn't even left the building. It wasn't his fault the coffee shop in the hotel was located right next to the bar. The Scotch on the rocks had relaxed him and helped him release some of his frustration over the fact that they had been unable to locate Smerdyakov.

He arrived at Jen's door but found he couldn't knock. The shop didn't have trays, so he was balancing four cups of coffee in two hands. He kicked the door several times.

A voice drifted through the door, "What is your name?"

"It's me. Open up."

"What is your quest?"

"Open the damn door, DiNozzo!"

Tony was frowning as he opened the door to admit Gibbs. "So I guess you're not going to answer the one about the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

"Just take your coffee. We get anything on Smerdyakov yet?"

"Nope. It looks like he switched cabs at least twice, and the last one dropped him at the train station. He could have taken a train or gotten in another cab."

"We gave his name to Interpol," McGee added, looking up from his computer, 'but he hasn't tried to check into a hotel or leave the country."

"He's dumb enough to leave the murder weapon at a crime scene but smart enough to disappear without a trace? I don't buy it. Where's Jen?"

"Shower. She got sick of waiting for the coffee. You stop for a little pick-me-up while you were down there, boss?"

Gibbs glared, angry that they hadn't been able to locate their target, that they were still in France and that they'd figured out he'd stopped for a drink. "There was a line in the coffee shop. Get back to work."

Tony sat down in the chair across from McGee, muttering, "Should have asked him his favorite color."

* * *

As Dmitri talked, Ziva's expression remained neutral, a titanic feat by any standard. When he finished, she took a deep breath. "This is…unbelievable."

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. "You are trembling, my princess."

"It's just, this is a lot of power for one man to wield."

"For us, Ziva. The world can be ours. We will leave for our new home when our business here has been completed and you can finally cut ties with Moussad and Shepard forever."

When her hand covered the one he had on her face, her fingers encountered his wedding band. "Forever," she whispered. She felt his lips on hers, feather soft.

His kisses became more passionate as his hands slipped inside her robe. From the doorway of the room, Ivan said, "Pardon my interruption, sir. Smerdyakov is on the telephone for you."

Dmitri sighed and Ziva rearranged her robe. "Put him on the speaker, Ivan."

"Yes, sir."

Ivan pressed a button and Dmitri said, "Smerdyakov, as much as Ziva and I enjoyed the gift of your absence at our wedding, I am afraid we are less appreciative of your betrayal."

"You can't scare me, Tushkevich. You will both be in prison, or worse, soon enough."

"You did not call just to tell me you have turned traitor."

"I've called to give you one last chance. I'll disappear and take everything I know with me if you meet my demands."

Dmitri rolled his eyes. "How much do you want, Smerdyakov?"

"It's not money that concerns me. I know you have no objections to parting with that. I have a sum in mind, but I also require something of more value."

"You know where the weapons are. Take whatever you wish."

"I'm not interested in old missiles."

"Then what?"

"I want Ziva."

She laughed with disgust. "He must be drunk."

"Or insane." Despite his confident tone of voice, Dmitri enveloped her in a protective embrace.

"I assure you I am neither," Smerdyakov continued on the phone. "But on this point I am immovable. It will not be a permanent arrangement, just a few hours in my hotel room. She will bring 10 million euro and do what I ask her to. When I am satisfied she will be free to leave."

"Absolutely not. My wife is not a commodity."

"And I couldn't carry that much currency, you idiot," Ziva added. On a piece of paper, she wrote a note for Dmitri: _He hasn't talked to anyone yet. He wouldn't bother to ask for something so offensive if it were a setup. Let's play._

Unable to see their silent communication, Smerdyakov continued, "Then just bring as much as you can carry in a briefcase. I can always obtain more cash. What I'm really interested in is the demand you seem less willing to fulfill. You have until tomorrow morning to change your minds."

"What happens tomorrow?"

"I meet with the CIA and tell them all of your secrets, Tushkevich. You will be destroyed."

"No!" Ziva shouted, winking at Dmitri and squeezing his hand. "I won't let you do that, Smerdyakov!"

Dmitri's pleased expression didn't match the concern in his tone. "Ziva, I will not let you."

She placed a hand over her heart and pretended to swoon in his lap, "But if it's the only way…"

A high-pitched giggle came over the line. "It sounds like you two have much to discuss. I will call back tonight to hear your decision." The sound of a dial tone filled the room as Smerdyakov hung up. Dmitri and Ziva broke into laughter.

"What an utter fool! To think I would use you to negotiate with him, my princess!"

"He thinks he'll get a night with me, then still have time to hide whatever money he gets from us and meet with the CIA in the morning. I doubt he could come up with a more elaborate double-cross."

"I am surprised he managed even that. Well, we should get ready if you're going to talk to Shepard before we visit Smerdyakov." He grabbed both her hands and pulled her off the couch. "Shall we shower?"


	22. Chapter 22

Ziva stepped out of the large shower stall, closing the sliding glass door behind her and wrapping a towel around her body. The beveled mirror over the marble counter with his and hers sinks had long steamed over. She traced her finger through the condensation, writing a message in block capital letters.

The water in the shower shut off. Dmitri slid the door back, grabbing his own towel from the rack. He kissed her bare shoulder and read what she had written on the mirror, "'Dmitri loves Monet.'"

"I know. It's a blatant lie." She drew a line through 'Monet' and wrote 'me' under it. "Better?"

He turned her around to face him, resting his hands on her hips. "I _do_ love you, Ziva."

"Stop trying to convince me." She kissed him lightly and gathered her wet hair off her neck, arranging it in a towel on her head. "You aren't really sending me to the Hilton so Smerdyakov can have his way with me. He doesn't even know we're coming. We'll make sure he isn't being babysat by NCIS, then gift-wrap him for them."

"I know, but his mere suggestion that he…" Dmitri shuddered as he trailed off and gripped her tighter. "You would never really sleep with another man, would you?" His hands trapped her face in an effort to make her look him in the eye. "Ziva?"

"I can only promise that if you can make sure there's a time when no one will be chasing and threatening us. Sex can be a form of power, and if I were in a situation where I could use that to save your life or my own, you have to know that I would not hesitate." It was her turn to force eye contact. "Mitya, you are my husband and I love you, but you and I both know we can't live by the normal rules."

"I know. But you can at least promise me that you will not love another man?"

She pulled herself into his body, speaking into his ear, "Of course, Mitya."

He held her even tighter, burying his face in her shoulder. She maintained her hold on him, allowing him to finally break the embrace. "We should get dressed. I know how much you are looking forward to teaching Smerdyakov a lesson about his lechery."

"I have to deal with Shepard first, though."

"You and she are supposed to be friends."

"Things change." She walked out of the bathroom, going straight to their large walk-in closet.

Dmitri followed and watched as she looked through her clothing. "You can pretend."

"I suppose." She held up a sweater. "Does blood come out of silk? I have a feeling things could get messy."

"That reminds me – we should start packing. I do not think we will be long for Paris after they discover Smerdyakov."

* * *

Jenny sat on the backless red stool at the bar and examined the bottles lined up against the mirror on the rear wall. She was in the mood for something strong. Would it be inappropriate to ask for a shot of overproof Appleton here? Probably. _You're not in college anymore, Jenny._ She looked left to see who had joined her. "What do you think of absinthe, Jethro?"

"I think you should stick with Scotch on the rocks, Jen." He beckoned to the bartender. "A Glenfiddich on the rocks for the lady and a Johnnie Walker neat for me."

"Glenlivet," Jen corrected.

"You look a little too miserable to be that picky, Jen."

She glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "I've just spoken to Fitzgerald."

"Bad?"

"Oh, yeah." She nodded to the bartender, who smiled as he placed her drink in front of her. She took a sip and waited for him to move on before continuing, "He seems to think they'll be making a move tomorrow. If our friend hasn't finished whatever she's supposed to be doing by then, it could be bad for her. And us."

"Why tomorrow?"

"They have an appointment with someone we've been looking for."

"Do they know where he is now?"

"I don't think so. They're counting on him to show up."

"And what if something _happens_ to him between now and then, Jen? I don't think, uh, our friend's friends want him going to an appointment like that." Gibbs finished his drink and held up his hand to signal for another.

"If we can't find him and our associates can't find him, what makes you think they can?"

"Maybe they have a better idea of where to look. And can we stop the cryptic bullshit?"

Jen reduced her voice to a hiss, "If Smerdyakov talks to the CIA, Ziva is screwed, and, by extension, so are we. If she'd completed her mission, she wouldn't still be with Tushkevich. We need to find a way to talk to her and warn her."

* * *

A sharp rap sounded on the door of the room, drawing McGee's attention away from his computer. "Sounds like Gibbs and Jenny forgot their keys."

Tony leaned against the pillows and continued flipping rapidly through the TV stations. "Then why don't you go let them in, Probie?"

"Fine." He crossed the room to the door, closed one eye and looked through the peephole to confirm the identity of his bosses. "No way." He yanked the door open. "I never even saw you leave the house!"

McGee got only a glimpse of Ziva's shocked expression before she slammed the door behind her and threw herself at him, hugging him and kissing his cheeks. "Tim!"

He returned her embrace awkwardly, briefly wondering if she'd hit her head and thought he was the one with whom she'd been involved. "I, um, missed you too?"

"No, you don't understand!" She stepped back and held him at arm's length. "I thought you were dead! You and Tony. Oh God, is Tony…Tony!" She shoved past McGee into Tony's waiting arms.

McGee made a special effort not to watch them, but he was trapped in the small entryway. He could either leave the room or interrupt them to get past. His eyes flicked toward the couple. _No wonder Tony's been so upset_. It was clear they'd forgotten he was even there. He cleared his throat. "I'm going to go find Gibbs and Shepard to tell them you're here, Ziva."

She didn't turn to look at him as she answered distractedly, "Yes…I…have to…talk…to Jen…right away."

McGee couldn't help laughing, "Right away? You're sure?"

This time Ziva did turn around. Her expression was pained. "I don't have long, Tim. Just go get her."

As McGee left the room, he heard Tony say, "Wait, what do you mean you don't have long?"


	23. Chapter 23

When McGee answered the door, it took Tony a few moments to process what he was hearing. He'd wrapped his arms around her before he'd wrapped his mind around the idea – Ziva was back. He was kissing her and holding her and inhaling her and, more importantly, she was returning it all. She was _his_ Ziva again.

Her scent, her flavor, her feel, they were all the same. It hadn't all changed the way he'd been afraid it would. The mission was over. Tushkevich was over. Tony and Ziva were on again.

"I'm going to go find Gibbs and Shepard to tell them you're here, Ziva." McGee's exit couldn't have been timed better. Tony had a moment to wonder if he should drag Ziva back to his own room or just stay in Jen's. Room service would change the sheets on request, so it wasn't like she'd have any reason to be mad And the bed was right there…

"Yes…I…have to…talk…to Jen…right away," Ziva replied between kisses. Tony missed whatever McGee said, but was surprised when she turned to face the other man. "I don't have long, Tim. Just go get her."

Tony slammed on the brakes mentally as McGee left. He noticed that she avoided eye contact when she turned back to him. "Wait, what do you mean you don't have long?"

"Dmitri knows I'm here. He thinks I'm just finding out what NCIS knows about Smerdyakov."

He tightened his grip on her body possessively. He wished she wouldn't talk about Tushkevich. He didn't want to think about sharing, even if it was only in the physical sense"Oh. Well, we don't…"

"Stop." She rested her hands on his face and stared into his eyes. Tony decided that if she did have limited time, this wasn't such a bad way to spend it. "I thought I was never going to see you again. I thought you were dead."

"I'm not." He was surprised to see her eyes veiled by unshed tears. He kissed her softly as he unbuttoned her coat. "It's okay."

"I didn't know Dmitri had rigged the boat to explode and when it blew a few minutes after I saw you and McGee walking toward the dock…oh, Tony, I just…" she stopped as she buried her face in his neck.

"I know, I know." He stroked her hair and breathed a little easier, pushing her coat off her shoulders and drawing her toward the bed. She hadn't known about the bomb on the yacht. That had been the one thing that had really shaken him and it wasn't relevant any more. She didn't know. The mattress hit the back of his legs and he pulled her into bed on top of him. "It's okay," he murmured, shifting her to his side as his lips found her neck.

She made a weak effort to push him away. "No, it's not okay."

"I'm alive. McGee is alive." His hands slipped under her sweater, his thumb running over the scar on her stomach. She'd had that scar every time he'd seen her naked, every time but one. He wanted to see it again. "Everything is okay."

"Just listen to me." She forcefully pulled his head up, making him pay attention to her face. He obliged, kissing her. She allowed his tongue only a brief foray into her mouth before stopping him. His hands continued getting reacquainted with her skin as she said, "I thought you were dead. Things changed because I didn't have to…I thought things would be over quicker if…I knew it wouldn't hurt you…"

"Ziva, relax." Tony couldn't figure out why she was so worked up. Not that he wasn't worked up…they just seemed to be having trouble getting work up on the same page. He tried to push her sweater toward her head. "You didn't hurt me. I went for a swim in some nasty water, but that was all."

"Stop." He ceased his actions at the pleading tone in her voice. She took a few deep breaths. Something heavy hung in the air as their eyes met. "Tony…I love you."

It was all he needed. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he pushed her onto her back and climbed on top of her. He could feel the mattress sink as his weight pressed her down. He was never going to be able to kiss her deeply enough. "I love you…I love you…mmm…oh, God, Ziva, I love you."

Another quick change occurred as she flipped him, straddling his hips. "You have to stop and listen to me right now. I love you…"

"I love you, too."

"Listen! I love you _but_ I thought you were dead. And…" She swung her leg around and leaped off the bed, walking toward the window. She parted the curtains. The Eiffel Tower appeared in relief against a pink sky; the sun was already setting. She turned just before he got close enough to embrace her from behind. "Tony, I married Dmitri yesterday."

Tony blinked. He had heard the expression 'weak in the knees' on many occasions, but he had never really understood it. He knew what searing pain in the knees felt like, and he knew the popping collapse that preceded it. This was not a torn ligament. This was a more of an instantaneous conversion from bone and sinew to jelly and water. If he didn't move he wouldn't have to show his weakness. It could be fixed with a retraction. That was it. She would just have to laugh and yell, 'Psyche!' Would she know that trick? The one she'd just pulled on his legs was a pretty good one so it stood to reason…reason? Wait… "What did you say?"

Her face was open, a rarity when sex wasn't involved. Why did his mind have to go to sex right now? Emotions played across her features in rapid-fire succession. She swallowed hard and said, "I married Dmitri."

Just as quickly as they had turned to goo, Tony's legs resolidified. Every muscle in his body seemed to clench. He was made of iron. Steel. He steeled himself. "You thought I was dead and the best response you could think of was to marry the guy who killed me?"

"There are certain things I need from Dmitri, things that I can't get unless he trusts me completely. After I thought you died, I thought I could get these things more easily if I just ate the bullet and married him."

"Bit the bullet," he corrected automatically.

"Yes, bit the bullet. I can't tell you what I'm looking for, but being his wife will make it easier to obtain. He thinks I'm totally with him now…"

"Yeah, for better or worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer. I've been to a wedding or two."

"Tony, I don't expect you to…"

"Understand?" he interrupted. "No, I understand. You have a mission. You're carrying it out. You're a super spy girl who always gets the job done, damn the consequences."

"I was trying to say that I don't expect you to forgive me."

"Good. You won't be disappointed." He was surprised by how much he wanted to hurt her, see how deep he would have to dig before she showed some real emotional pain. He wanted to make her feel everything he had felt over the past few months then rip it all away. It was her turn to have her heart ripped out. Was that what had just happened to him? No wonder he wasn't feeling particularly forgiving. "I hope you'll excuse my not asking where the happy couple is registered. I doubt I could afford a proper gift anyway."

"Will you just…" He could see she was starting to get frustrated. "When Dmitri blew up the yacht, I thought you had been killed, and I had to pretend that I was angry because I'd left my watch on the damn boat. Can you believe that was the best excuse I could think of? I was dying inside and I had to be upset over a fucking watch."

An elegantly simply solution arose in Tony's mind. "Don't go back to him."

She looked at him incredulously. "I have to."

"No, you don't. If being with him is so hard, stay here. Stay here with me. Just because I can't give you yachts and houses all over Europe and…and 500-carat diamonds doesn't mean I can't give you everything." His anger faded as he spoke and realized that he was being sincere. He would forget it all if she chose him now. "Please stay."

"I wish I could."

"You can!" Why didn't she understand how easy it could be? She didn't even have to _do_ anything, just sit down and not leave.

"Tony…"

His anger started to take over again. "You're standing in front of me right now, telling me you love me but you can't stay with me because you've gotta go back to your arms dealing husband for reasons you can't explain? Just tell me one thing Ziva – which is real for you, him or me? Are you gonna walk out that door and go back to pretending I don't exist?"

"It's not like that." She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and sat in one of the chairs by the table. "I've known when you were watching me. I was watching you back. In the casino, you were wearing a dark blue pinstriped suit that I'd never seen you wear before. Your shirt was a steel blue that really brought out your eyes, and your tie was dark, like your suit. I couldn't look at you for more than a second at a time because I knew I would blow my cover and ruin everything."

And he had been so sure she hadn't even looked at him…but that didn't change anything. "And then, later that night when you were fucking your fiancé, I'm sorry, your _husband_, you had to bite your lip to stop from screaming my name? Is that what your gonna tell me next?"

"Actually I had to fake my orgasm because all I could think about was how angry I was not to be with you."

"Oh, that's good. How long did it take you to come up with that one?"

"Tony…" There was a warning in her tone now.

He'd gone to far to heed it by now. He wanted to see how far 'too far' would take them. Him. Too far meant he had to stop thinking about them. He took a different tack. "Do you tell him you love him?"

"I'm married to him. What do you think?"

"And it's a lie?"

"Of course."

"But I should trust you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She stood, placing herself inches from his face. "Because no one assigned you to me. No one handed me a file folder and said, 'Infiltrate this man's life.' Dmitri is my mission. You have always been my choice."

"Then prove it. Choose me now."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've told you I can't explain any more than I already have."

"No, I'm not listening to any more of this crap. You are so contrived, Ziva. Everything you say is planned and plotted and you're manipulative and you'll do anything to get what you want, even if no one told you to do it. And you know what the worst part is? I have had tons of opportunities to change my mind about you, to say, 'Hey, she's gone over to the dark side.' But I didn't. I thought that everything I felt for you was enough to overcome this whole _thing_, but it doesn't matter. It just doesn't fucking matter because you were always on the dark side. You can tell yourself whatever you need to to help you sleep at night, but sooner or later you're gonna have to accept that you're one of the bad guys, Ziva."

Stars exploded in Tony's field of vision. How did he end up on the floor? His eyes teared as his hands instinctively moved to cover his nose. He heard Gibbs. "Ziva? What the hell is going on?"

"I need to talk to Jen and I don't have much time."

"Fine. McGee, go get DiNozzo cleaned up."

Tony felt someone helping him to his feet and guiding him to another room. His head spun. What had just happened? He couldn't even begin to process it. There was too much – too much to understand, too much to figure out, too much to regret.

McGee sat him in a chair in their own hotel room and offered him some ice wrapped in a towel. "What happened between you two while I was gone?"

Tony answered as honestly as he could without thinking too much. "Something bad."

"You must've made her pretty mad."

"Uh-huh." He held the chilled towel again his throbbing face, focusing on the pain for an undetermined amount of time. He finally said, "She married Tushkevich yesterday."

"Really?" McGee sounded surprised.

"Yeah. If Jenny and I had followed them we could have gone to the wedding. Instead we did a bad job of following Smerdyakov. If this were a movie, I would have gotten there just in time for the line about speaking now or forever holding your peace and I would have…" he trailed off. He would have stopped her from marrying Tushkevich. He would have stopped her. He wouldn't have let her make the wrong choice. "Oh, shit."

He jumped out of the chair, letting the bloody towel fall to the floor as he rushed out of the room. McGee was behind him as he pounded on the door of Jen's room. Gibbs finally opened it. "DiNozzo, what the…"

Tony brushed past Gibbs into the room. "Ziva?"

Only Jen sat at the table by the window. "She's gone, Tony."

He sank to his knees, covering his face with his hands. "Shit."


	24. Chapter 24

A/n: Blood and violence in this chapter. Just a general warning to the squeamish.

* * *

Ziva buttoned her coat and pulled on a pair of black gloves as she entered the stairwell. Smerdyakov was in a room on the eighth floor, five flights up. Dmitri and Ivan's heads appeared over the railing high above her. She acknowledged them with a wave and ascended slowly, periodically rubbing the sore knuckles of her right hand. They had started to bruise while she'd talked with Jen. She'd hit Tony very hard.

Dmitri kissed her and handed her larger purse to her when she arrived on the eighth floor landing. "Well?"

"They have no idea where Smerdyakov is. The Director of the CIA called Shepard to tease her with the fact that they've flipped someone, but she had the impression that he was blowing smoke to find out if they knew where he was."

"Good. What else did you tell Shepard?"

"That you've placed a bomb somewhere in the city and you won't hesitate to detonate it if anyone gets in your way, that NCIS will be free to seize the arms in the basement once we're gone tomorrow, and that we've gotten married. She was more than a little shocked over that last one." She opened the purse to make sure her knife was under the stacks of currency. After a moment's thought, she transferred it to the pocket of her coat. "Is this all we're going to, hm, _give_ him?"

"Ivan has the briefcase as well. Did you tell her what time we are leaving?"

"I told her we would try to flee the city before the CIA caught us. I'm sure she'll have the jet staked out, perhaps even be waiting at the airfield herself."

"Excellent. Are you all right, Ziva?" His hands encircled her waist. "You seem upset."

"I've spent the last half hour pretending our marriage is a sham and now I have to go to that traitorous pig and act alluring. Please, tell me how I should feel."

"I am sorry for all this, my princess," he paused to press his lips against her cheek, "but it will all be finished soon. We have the master key for the hotel. We will give you five minutes to show him the money and make him feel comfortable. You remember the cover we devised?"

"Of course." She opened the door of the stairwell. "Be sure that it's no more than five minutes. You know how I hate to be alone with him."

She winced slightly as Dmitri kissed her gloved right hand. "Five minutes."

* * *

"So Smerdyakov has fallen off the map?"

"Tushkevich wouldn't have sent Ziva to us for no good reason. He called to threaten them. They have to stop him before he talks to the CIA and Tushkevich wanted to use us to try and find out where he is because they obviously don't know."

"Obviously. And how did he know to send her to you?"

"I told you, Jethro. He thinks she's his double agent with Moussad and the US by extension."

"She's just really committed then?"

"The whole marriage thing will just fix her position in the Molot."

"I just hope she knows what she's doing, Jen."

"It's Ziva. We trust her, remember? She'll come through for us."

"For us or Moussad?"

"We're fighting the same people, Jethro."

"Then why won't they tell us what she's really doing? Did you ever get in touch with Director David?"

* * *

Clutching the handle of the briefcase tightly, Ziva knocked on the door of room 802. She could hear movement on the other side of the door. Five minutes. She took a deep breath. "Konstantin? Please…Dmitri doesn't know I've come. Let me in."

The door opened a crack, revealing the pasty face of Smerdyakov. "How did you find me?"

"I had a friend trace your call."

"Who?"

"Jenny Shepard with NCIS. They are looking for you for the murder of their sailor, but I didn't tell them you were the one I was looking for."

"So I am not the only traitor in the fold?" He opened the door further. "Come in then, princess."

"Don't call me that."

"You don't seem to mind when your Mitya says it." He put a sickening emphasis on Dmitri's name.

"Let's not talk about him." She dropped the briefcase and her purse on the bed. "I've brought you as much as I could. There's 1.6 million in the case and another 200, 000 in my bag." She tried to cross her arms over her chest, but he prevented her, taking her left hand in both of his.

He tugged at the fingers of her black leather glove as he pulled it off. "Your ring is quite valuable, I'm sure."

She attempted to pull her hand back. "I won't give it to you. Mitya…Dmitri would ask questions and find out I'd been to see you. He wouldn't approve."

"How romantic! He would allow both of you to be caught rather than share you with me for the night."

"He would also kill you."

When she made another attempt to free her hand, he pulled her against him. He smelled as if he had been stewing in borscht overnight. "Do you know why I made you part of the bargain?"

She was almost three inches taller than him in bare feet. Her heels gave her a five-inch advantage as she glared down at him. "Because you could never hope to have a woman like me in any other circumstances?"

"No, I could afford a very nice escort for the money I have access to." He began groping her clumsily through her clothing. "But you…I revolt you, but you will still submit to me to save your lover. And when Dmitri finds out…and he will, you can be assured of that…he will never again be able to touch you without thinking that I have had my hands and tongue in the same places." He giggled madly as he placed a slimy kiss on her neck. "One night and you will be my whore forever."

* * *

"Director David isn't accountable to us, just like we don't answer to Moussad. We cooperate."

"So far all we've done is follow their operative, blind."

"She's ours too, Jethro."

"Do you think he knows about Ziva and Tushkevich? That they're married now?"

"I'd be shocked if he didn't."

"How could he do it? I mean, how could he send his own daughter into that kind of situation, asking her to get involved with Tushkevich?"

"That's not how the mission started."

"Yeah, you told me he sent her in to hook up with a minor functionary. I don't see how that's so much better. 'Hey, sweetheart, I need you to sleep your way to the top of an international arms cartel.' What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I just can't imagine Ziva's father ever referring to her as 'sweetheart.'"

"All fathers have pet names for their daughters."

"Did you have one for Kelly? I'm sorry, Jethro, I didn't mean to…"

"So what can we speculate about this bomb, Jen?"

* * *

Smerdyakov's hands pawed at Ziva's body. "Take off your clothes."

Her right hand, still gloved, slipped into her pocket as she unbuttoned her coat. He was distracted by a noise at the door. Instead of lunging toward her as she had expected and readied herself for, he bounded to the nightstand, fumbling for a pistol with a silencer already attached. He fired one shot before Ivan disarmed and subdued him.

Ziva clutched her left arm near her biceps. The bullet had passed straight through, taking some flesh with it, but doing no serious damage. Through gritted teeth, she said, "For an assassin you are a terrible shot, Smerdyakov."

"Tie him to the chair, Ivan!" Dmitri was instantly at her side, inspecting the wound and murmuring words of comfort. He helped her remove her coat. "We will take you to a doctor as soon as we are done here."

"Unnecessary. It isn't bad. We can clean and bandage it at home."

"Just sit and relax, my princess." He pulled a chair out from the table for her and pressed a white bathroom towel over the bloody hole in her sweater. "Ivan and I will do the demanding work." He removed his coat and jacket, revealing a large hammer hanging conspicuously at his belt. He slipped it out and swung it absently at nothing.

Smerdyakov eyes became very wide and he struggled against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. "Your new wife is a traitor! She found me with the help of NCIS! She will sell you to the Americans just as she sold herself to me! She is a common…"

Dmitri dropped the hammer and slapped him hard enough to draw blood from his lip before he could finish. "Do you honestly believe anything Ziva told you? Or think that we did not plan this all in advance? I know all about NCIS. Gag him, Ivan." Dmitri walked to the minibar and poured three drinks. He placed one in front of Ziva. "I am afraid this is the best painkiller I can offer you for now."

"I can think of something that will make me feel a little better." She made a special effort to grin maliciously.

"Ah, do you think we should do the nose first?" At her nod, Dmitri unsheathed a knife and continued to an unintelligible Smerdyakov, "You see, Ziva and I wanted to find a fitting tribute to your use of Gogol's name as your alias and we settled on 'The Nose.' Do you know it, Smerdyakov? No? It is probably best, as we do not intend to follow the plot exactly. The important thing to keep in mind is that a man awakens one morning and finds," Dmitri began tracing a knife lightly against Smerdyakov's face, "he has…no…nose."

Smerdyakov's mumbles and movements became more frantic, then panicked, then hysterical as Ziva concentrated on her makeshift bandage. She folded a hand towel in quarters and used a second to tie it in place. She was having trouble knotting it. "Mitya, would you…oh, never mind. Your hands are all bloody. And you've gotten it on your shirt, as well. Ivan, would you please?"

Ivan completed the bandage as Dmitri removed his gloves. They landed in a pile on the table with the nose. "The face, the head…don't you find they always bleed so much?"

Ziva sipped her drink. It had a smoky, biting quality that did little to distract her from the pain in her arm. "Can we get on with this? As much as I'd like to see the pig suffer, I must admit I'd also like to leave as soon as possible."

Smerdyakov whimpered in the corner, tied to his chair, making gurgling sounds through his gag.

"Of course. How inconsiderate of me. Write the note for Shepard. Ivan, why don't we knee-cap him and be done with it?"

"Shall I use the hammer or the gun, sir?"

"Shooting him will be quicker."

"Right leg or left?"

"Why not both?" Dmitri kicked the chair over so Smerdyakov was on his side. "Shoot from behind the leg to blow the bone clean off."

"Yes, sir."

Ziva turned away as Dmitri put his coat on her. The muffled gunshots were accompanied by redoubled stifled screaming.

* * *

"C'mon, Jen, she wouldn't even tell us where it's planted."

"She explained that."

"So you buy that she doesn't trust us not to go check it out?"

"No, I trust that she thinks we'd feel obligated to take care of it as soon as we found out where it is, which would let Tushkevich know she'd told us. She's in a very dangerous situation herself. If she thought the bomb were an immediate threat, she would have told us where it is."

"And how will she let us know where it is now?"

"She'll find a way. Don't forget to have McGee get her retinal scan from the NCIS database. She said we'd need it to gain access to the munitions locker in the sub-basement of the townhouse."

"You think the bomb might be there?"

"I think something will be there. Ziva will find a way to tell us what we need to know."

"I'm glad you still have so much faith in her."

"You don't, Jethro?"

"She broke Tony's nose."

"She probably would have done that at some point in their relationship anyway. What, you don't agree?"

"No, I see what you're saying. It just figures I'd be in Paris when I remember why I came up with rule number twelve."

* * *

Ziva leaned against Dmitri in the elevator. "Have I told you how much I dislike being shot, Mitya?"

"Perhaps that drink was not a good idea, considering the blood loss."

"Nonsense. I can barely feel it." She poked the lump in the arm of the coat where her bandage puffed out and gasped. "Oh, there it is. I feel it."

He kissed the side of her head. "Ziva…" Their arrival in the lobby cut him short. "Ivan, if you would secure a cab for us…"

"I will meet you outside, sir."

Dmitri slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her toward the concierge. "Have this delivered to Jenny Shepard in room 328, please."

The man behind the desk answered politely, "Right away, Sir."

* * *

"What is it, Jethro?"

"It's addressed to you."

"It's from Ziva. 'Smerdyakov is in room 802. He'll need medical attention.' And there's a room key. He's in the hotel?"

"She wasn't here to find out where he was. She was here to find out if we knew he's here."

"We can argue about that later."

"I'll get McGee."

"What about DiNozzo?"

"I think he's been through enough Ziva-related trauma for one day."

"He's really got it bad for her."

"Yup."

"I think it's mutual."

"Uh-huh."

"They may still have a future. Am I boring you?"

"No. I just thought you could save the gossip for tea with Cynthia when we get home."

"Go get McGee, Special Agent Gibbs."


	25. Chapter 25

Gibbs was slowly changing his opinion of the French. All it taken for the hotel management to look the other way had been a few 10,000 euro bricks from the briefcase they'd found on the bed in Smerdyakov's room. Between bribes and threats, Jen had managed to convince the few staff members aware of the situation that NCIS did, in fact, have jurisdiction in the case and that notifying the City or Judicial Police would be unnecessary. Gibbs wondered how many regulations they were violating and how he could use them to blackmail Jen the next time she stepped on his toes during an investigation. The bribery alone would be enough to keep her off his back during a double homicide.

Refocusing on the current job, he watched McGee snapping pictures of the eighth floor hotel room. A chair and cut ropes lay in a blood pool near the window. Smerdyakov had been tied to the chair when they'd entered. Jen, Tony and two paramedics had very quietly taken him to an ambulance via an underground service entrance. They were interrogating him at the hospital while Gibbs and McGee analyzed the crime scene.

He picked up a hammer next to the bed. "Doesn't look like it's been used. Well, maybe for some carpentry work, but not to hit someone."

"Smerdyakov didn't look like he'd been beaten. His wounds were very, uh, precise." McGee scanned through some photos on his digital camera until he arrived at the set taken before the paramedics had arrived. "It looked like the nose and the knees were the only injuries."

"Well, we know she's precise." Gibbs' mind flashed back to a man on his basement floor with a bullet through his forehead. He tried not to think about the things that couldn't be counted against Ziva; she was in enough trouble without an assault of personal demons. If Smerdyakov had been planning to meet with the CIA, this was going to get even worse for her. He sighed and bagged the hammer.

"Uh, boss?"

"What, McGee?"

"It might not have been Ziva."

"We know she was up here." He had to start thinking like them if he was going to figure out how to get her out of trouble. "It was her handwriting on the note Jen got and the concierge saw her exit the elevator with Tushkevich and Poplyovin, so it's a good bet that she was up here with her Russian buddies slicing off our guy's nose not long ago."

McGee held up a long black coat by the collar. "And I think this is Ziva's coat."

"I thought you were arguing on her side while I played devil's advocate."

He looked confused but went with it. "Right, but this might support my, uh, side." He held out his hand, showing where blood had stained the white latex. "The left sleeve is covered."

Gibbs took another look at the blood pool around the chair. "There's a lot of blood in this room. It could have come from anywhere."

"I think it came from a bullet wound. There's a tear in the sleeve that looks like a bullet hole, and there's a slug embedded in the wall," he pointed to a spot almost concealed by a picture frame, "here."

"Okay, keep going."

"Well, from everything we know about the relationships here, Tushkevich isn't hurting his new wife, and Poplyovin isn't pissing off his boss. That leaves Smerdyakov. All of his injuries occurred after he was tied to the chair, right?"

"That's how it looks."

"So what if they surprise him and he overreacts as he tries to defend himself. He fires wildly and hits Ziva. Tushkevich takes it personally and goes nuts. We can tell the CIA…"

"Nothing."

"But won't they wonder when Smerdyakov doesn't show up for his meeting," he searched through the evidence bags until he found one with a piece of hotel stationary in it, "at nine at the Ritz tomorrow? Wow, the CIA team is staying at the Ritz?"

"And we're at the Hilton, McGee, not the Motel 6."

"Right, but I just meant…oh, the CIA. How do we explain this to them?"

"No idea. That's Jen's department, and considering she told the paramedics Smerdyakov's name was Nikolai Gogol, I think she's buying time for us to do something."

_Or giving Tushkevich time to escape_, a tiny voice in the back of his head murmured. Jen's faith in Ziva was admirable, but misplaced. They didn't have to worry about her; they had to worry about Moussad. Even if Ziva completed her mission successfully, she would remain a traitor in the eyes of the CIA until Moussad produced some tangible proof to clear her. The image of the dead man in his basement surfaced again. _She's so screwed_.

"Damn."

"What?" McGee turned away from the bullet he was digging out of the wall. Gibbs gave him a grave look. "Thought you said something, boss."

"Nothing you need to worry about, Tim." He put Ziva's coat in a plastic evidence bag. "Just don't tell DiNozzo we think Ziva got shot."

"Again."

Gibbs removed his glove and swatted McGee's head before agreeing. "Yeah, again."

* * *

Jenny was finding it difficult to have sympathy for Smerdyakov, despite the fact that his nose had been severed and his knees mutilated. He had blubbered about never being able to walk again all the way from the hotel to the hospital. Waiting for a surgeon in the particularly busy emergency room, she snapped, "I can imagine that being one of Petty Officer Zamansky's last thoughts – right before you started beating him to death with a hammer."

He was in a euphoric trance from the pain medications. "You know about that? You are Americans? Aha! You are on my side I think. I am going to give you Dmitri Tushkevich. He likes to mix lemonade with his vodka in the summer. You know the Molot if you know me and you will want to arrest him. I'll be pressing charges for assault when you do. I hope they don't serve lemonade in prison."

"We're not the CIA. We're only here for you. You murdered a member of the United States Navy and we take that very seriously."

"I really thought she was going to sleep with me. Imagine, she and I. She would have given away her dignity and his love and I still would have turned them in." He giggled like a child. "Such a pretty whore."

Jenny resisted the urge to punch one of the lumpy bandages covering his knees. "Who?"

"You have eyes like angry sapphires. Dmitri's new bride. Ziva. She was going to sleep with me to stop me from telling you all about their little operation. Will they fix my legs with an operation?"

"And what do you know about it?"

"Nothing. I'm not a doctor. Ah, her hair smelled like fresh flowers. I will take that memory with me to the grave." He looked up as Tony opened the door as he entered. "When I was a boy growing up in Siberia, we had a farm with chickens and goats that I used to…"

Jenny ignored Smerdyakov's further ravings and asked, "How's your nose?"

Tony gingerly touched the white splint covering it. "Hurts." He had flirted with one of the nurses until she'd agreed to get him a doctor. "They set the bone. It should be all right in a couple weeks."

"Funny how he has two shattered kneecaps and an amputated nose but you get treated for a broken nose right off."

"Marie, the nurse, I mean, said they're short on surgeons. They did everything they could to stabilize him until the orthopedic guy can get here. They don't seem all that concerned about the whole problem with his nose missing."

"It isn't missing. I told Jethro to catalogue it with the other evidence in the room." She took out her cell phone to see if she had somehow missed a call he still hadn't made. Smerdyakov was telling a dirty story involving the goats. Jenny tuned him out again.

Tony was inspecting his face in a hand mirror that had been on the counter. The dark bruising had spread under both his eyes. He put the mirror back. "Do you think we should have put it on ice and brought it down here with us?"

"No," she stated firmly.

"You think he deserved what he got?"

"After what he did to Petty Officer Zamansky? This is better justice than whatever prison sentence we could have gotten him."

"You sound like Gibbs. Make sure the bad guys get what they deserve." He unconsciously felt his nose and winced.

Jenny was about to say something when a man in a lab coat entered the room, followed by a nurse. "Excuse me, Madame. I am the orthopedic surgeon. Are you here with Monsieur Gogol?"

She had almost forgotten she'd given the paramedics the alias Smerdyakov had used to check in at the hotel. If she maintained the charade here and the CIA found out… Covering up where he'd been found was bad enough, she decided. "His name is actually Konstantin Smerdyakov and he's under arrest."

"May I ask the charge?"

"Murder."

"I see. And how much care will he be receiving?"

"What do you mean?"

"I am merely asking if you expect a murderer to receive the same treatment that you yourself would."

Jenny found the man's cold, calm demeanor unsettling. "Fix whatever you can. We're not concerned about the bill, just about bringing him to trial."

"I see. If you and your friend would step outside for a moment, I will examine the patient." He shut the door behind them as they stepped into the hallway.

She watched through the small window as the doctor and nurse compared the notes on the chart to the x-rays and actual legs. She turned away when they gave Smerdyakov an additional painkiller before they began removing bandages and joined Tony. Recalling what she'd been about to say earlier, she said, "I don't know why she punched you, but you aren't one of the bad guys."

"I told her _she_ was. That's why she hit me."

Jenny blinked. "You told her you don't trust her anymore?"

"Not exactly." He squirmed under her gaze and looked up and down the hall. "I told her I thought she was on Tushkevich's side."

"Oh, Tony…"

"I didn't mean it! I was angry! She tells me she thought I was dead and she loves me then follows that up by telling me she married him and I'm not allowed to know why." He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Then she told me that I was her choice, and I tried to make her prove it. She wouldn't and I told her she was one of the bad guys and she hit me. By the time I, I don't know, accepted that she's stuck on this mission until it's over, she was gone. I didn't get a chance to apologize."

"She did." Jenny reached into her pocket and fingered an envelope Ziva had given her earlier that night, to be delivered to Tony if the worst happened.

"What?"

She withdrew her empty hand from her pocket. Things could still get worse. "She asked me to tell you she was sorry for everything."

"Everything?"

"Her exact words were, 'Tell Tony I'm sorry.' I just assumed she meant for everything."

"How do you do it, Jenny?"

"Do what?"

"Stay so calm and in control?"

"What, you've already forgotten our little car chase?"

"No, I just meant…with Ziva. Even though we all trust her, there have been times when we, I mean me, Gibbs and McGee, have started to doubt her. But you never have."

"That's not true. Gibbs has never lost faith in Ziva, just in the quality of the information she's getting from Tushkevich. McGee can barely wrap his head around the fact that we're living a James Bond movie and you…you're in love. That makes everything crazy."

"Crazy is right," he laughed. "I never expected things to be normal, but there's a guy in there who got his nose cut off. I can't even begin to…" He stopped as the doctor and nurse opened the door of the room.

"He will be taken to surgery immediately," the doctor stated.

Jenny checked her watch. "How long will he be there?"

"Eight hours? Perhaps considerably longer. The damage is extensive. One of you will wait to ensure he remains in custody, I assume."

"We have other business to attend to, but we'll wait until our security guards arrive." She pulled Tony toward the exit so they could converse privately. "I'll call the Embassy and have them send over a few Marines. As soon as he's anesthetized we'll pick up Ziva and Tushkevich at the…"

A long, loud beep suddenly drew staff from all over to the door of Smerdyakov's room. It was full of activity for more than twenty minutes as Jenny and Tony tried to find out what was happening.

One of the ER doctors finally approached them. "You came in with the Russian, right?"

"Yes. What's going on?" Jenny asked.

"He's had a heart attack, perhaps a reaction to the pain medications. I'm afraid he is dead."

She took a deep breath, muttering, "Justice couldn't wait a few days?"

"Excuse me, Madame?"

"Nothing, Doctor. The body will have to be released to NCIS."


	26. Chapter 26

A/n: I'm a bit ill at the moment, so updates won't be as rapid-fire as usual.

* * *

Ziva cringed as Dmitri daubed a cloth soaked in antiseptic on her arm. Muscle was visible briefly when he gently wiped blood away as he cleaned the wound. It didn't appear torn or otherwise damaged. The bullet had made a gash a few centimeters long on the outside of her upper left arm, but it wasn't very deep. She was lucky; it could have been much worse. That didn't make the antiseptic sting any less. "Are you really using vodka like Ivan suggested?"

"It is rubbing alcohol." He held up the clearly labeled bottle as proof and continued his ministrations. She noticed that he grimaced every time she did. "We should really consider calling the doctor, my princess."

"No," she replied quickly. "That will take too much time and I need to finish packing. We have to appear to have gone by the time NCIS finishes questioning Smerdyakov."

He ripped several paper packages, removing gauze pads to apply to the wound. "You think they will bother with that? If they were smart they would come after us immediately."

"And if they didn't have something distracting them, they'd be here by now. Shepard thinks she can trust me not to flee, especially knowing that we've got a bomb we can use to negotiate." She held the pads against her arm as he searched the first aid kit for rolled gauze.

"I thought you told her we were leaving tomorrow."

"I did." She inhaled sharply as he wrapped the bandage around her arm. "A little looser, Mitya? She won't be in a hurry to apprehend us because she doesn't think you know that I told her, so you won't be in a rush. Wait…yes, that's right. Is this getting more complicated, or am I just feeling more lightheaded?"

"Ziva, we are not going to be leaving for hours yet, and it will be even longer before we can get you proper treatment. I really think we should call the doctor. You need stitches."

She gave him a peck on the lips. "Just finish binding it. We need to decide which lights to leave on to make it look like we're still here, even though we really will be here and everyone else will think we've left and have left them on to make them think we haven't left, when we really…" she trailed off as she yawned. "Are Muhammad and his mistress here yet?"

"You need to rest, my princess." Dmitri handed her two little white pills and a glass of water, which she accepted without question. He lifted her off the small marble bench where she'd been seated in the bathroom and carried her into the bedroom. Depositing her gently on the bed, he helped her remove the remainder of her clothes and slipped a red silk nightgown over her head. "Go to sleep. I will finish packing and wake you when it is time to leave."

She remained awake for a few minutes. She could hear Dmitri and Ivan moving around downstairs, but her eyelids were getting heavy. She drifted off to sleep just as a motor started outside.

* * *

McGee stared at the bloody towel on the floor of his hotel room. He was tired, very tired. He couldn't remember if it had come from the crime scene they had just transferred to the Judicial Police, or the FrenchBI, as Gibbs called them. McGee tried to remember if that were funny. Given the way Gibbs usually felt about working with the FBI, he thought it probably wasn't.

They'd been forced to surrender the scene and all the evidence they'd collected after Smerdyakov had died in the hospital. Which had occurred over an hour ago. Where were Shepard and Tony? McGee blinked. Tony! The bloody towel on the floor had been from Tony's broken nose. Ziva had punched him right before she'd gone upstairs and gotten shot herself.

McGee clicked on the bathroom light and splashed cold water on his face. He wasn't supposed to mention that to Tony. Where was he, again? "I could really use a nap," he muttered to himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. "Gibbs better have coffee waiting in the Director's room." His eyes suddenly looked startled in the mirror. He was supposed to be meeting the team in the other room. That's where everyone was.

He knocked, then fidgeted as Gibbs stood in the doorway, preventing him from entering. "Nice of you to join us, McGee."

"Sorry, boss. I just needed to stop and, uh, use the bathroom."

"Well, it was awfully considerate of you to use the one in the other room, Probie." Tony was sitting in a chair by the window, looking out between the curtains. He'd apparently taken advantage of his time at the hospital to get some care for his nose. "I'd hate for the fumes to be hanging in the air in here."

"Will you forget that? It was one time and I told you it was because of that spicy salami."

"Oh, right, blame the Italians. Just because we gave the world indoor plumbing doesn't mean you have to take such full advantage of it."

McGee tapped his finger lightly on the white splint on Tony's nose, drawing a flinch and a shriek. "Could you even smell anything right now?"

"We'll talk about McGee's flatulence problem later."

"Boss, it's not…" he attempted to interject.

Gibbs gave him a warning look. "We've lost our crime scene and our fugitive, so right now we've got to…"

"Go to the townhouse and find whatever we can," Shepard finished, looking up from the laptop on the table. "Ziva and Tushkevich have fled the country. The CIA saw them get into a car and followed them to the airport about an hour ago. The flight plan says they're on their way to Morocco, and that's where the CIA is following them."

"I find it hard to believe that Fitzgerald called to tell you all that."

"No, Jethro. I opened our little spy program on the computer and looked at the CIA's records myself. Nice job on that, Agent McGee."

"Thank you, Director Shepard." He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, pleased with himself and ignoring the faces Tony was making.

She continued, "You're fired if you do anything like it again."

His face fell. "Yes, Ma'am."

She smiled to reassure him. "Can you bring up the footage of them leaving?"

McGee sat at the computer opened the appropriate files. He scanned through the footage from the night, narrating for those not leaning over his shoulder, "It looks like Tushkevich and Poplyovin started loading a bunch of trunks and suitcases into a black SUV around nine. Ziva and Tushkevich get into the SUV just after ten, and Poplyovin drives." He fast-forwarded until he came to the present. "No activity since they left, but it looks like there are a lot of lights on in the house."

"You never leave the light on to make people think you're home, McGee?" Shepard's voice was very close to his ear. "Go back to the last shots of them before they leave."

McGee squinted at the grainy footage of Ziva getting into the car on the screen. "She doesn't look like she's favoring her arm at all."

"Why would she be?" Tony asked, sitting up a little straighter in his seat.

McGee looked up in alarm. Gibbs had specifically ordered him not to mention Ziva's injury. "Oh, I just meant…uh…"

He was saved as Gibbs' hand fell heavily on his shoulder. "What McGee is trying to say, DiNozzo, is that Ziva hit you pretty damn hard. We were discussing earlier whether she might have spilt a knuckle or something."

McGee looked curiously at Tony, not knowing what to expect. He had yet to figure out how his colleague felt about the injury. Tony seemed to relax and leaned back, entwining his fingers behind his head. "Well, relationships are give and take, I suppose."

So he wasn't angry with Ziva, but he wasn't upset that she might have hurt herself by hurting him? Weird. Or normal. It was Tony and Ziva, after all.

"I didn't think you knew what real relationships were like," Gibbs said dismissively.

"Just because I don't have the divorces to show for it doesn't mean…Ow!" McGee grinned as Tony rubbed the back of his head. "Y'know the doctor who set my nose said I should avoid blows to the head for a while."

"Then he should have advised you to shut up, too."

"Are you boys done?" Shepard interrupted. "The time stamp on the video is 10:13. That means that they left before Smerdyakov died."

"Is that significant?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know, but Ziva told us they weren't flying out until tomorrow."

McGee logged off and shut the laptop. "Why would they change their plans if they didn't know he was dead?"

"Wait a sec. Jenny, do you remember seeing that ortho guy or his nurse after they left Smerdyakov's room?" Tony scratched his head.

"They disappeared right after they talked to us."

"Tushkevich changed his mind about how much Smerdyakov knew and had him bumped off," Gibbs filled in. McGee was glad someone said it out loud. Asking for an explanation of something everyone else already seemed to get was always embarrassing. He just needed some sleep to get sharp again.

"That's what I'm thinking." Shepard was clipping on her gun and grabbing her coat. "If plans have changed, Ziva may have left us a message in the house. According to the CIA, Poplyovin didn't get on the plane, so we need to get over there in case he comes back."


	27. Chapter 27

Jenny Shepard looked around the room at her team. "We'll park down the street, about the same distance from which we've been observing. After a quick sweep of the house, we'll collect any files, computers, notepads or matchbooks with telephone numbers on them. If you have any question, take it. Once those materials are secure, we'll wait for our bomb squad to arrive."

"You've got a Navy team coming in?" Gibbs asked, zipping his plain black windbreaker. They were all wearing them. Shepard had told them they had to look inconspicuous, an instruction that seemed a little silly now that they were all wearing identical coats.

She shook off the thought and zipped up her own jacket, rechecking her gun as she did so. "I've already called them and they're en route. They should be able to handle whatever we find in the basement, and hopefully disarm the bomb in the city."

"Assuming we can find it."

"Ziva will have left us a way to it."

"If he told her where it really is."

"Think positively, Jethro. McGee?"

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"You've got Ziva's retinal scan from our database?"

"Uh-huh. We should be able to upload it into their scanner to make it think she's the one accessing the room."

"All right. Everybody's geared up? Good. Let's go." Jenny led the way out of the room, the heavy feeling in her chest, present since Smerdyakov's death, beginning to spread throughout her entire body.

* * *

Dmitri made his way slowly from the garage under the house to the third floor bedroom. Everything was ready for their departure, to occur just before dawn. He'd thrown a few last minute items into the blue Murciélago now parked at the head of the exit ramp. He smiled at the thought that the car could go from 0 to 60 faster than the garage door could open. _But I will have to drive. She will be disappointed about that._

He was careful not to make too much noise as he entered the bedroom and slipped under the covers next to Ziva. She was sleeping peacefully, courtesy of the painkillers he'd given her. He propped himself on his elbow and pulled the sheet down so he could see her arm. A small circle of blood stained the outermost layer of bandages, as if someone had pressed a red marker against the material. He lightly touched the spot, causing her to gasp softly in her sleep.

"I am sorry, my princess." He sighed deeply. "You are still bleeding. I knew I should have called the doctor." He brushed a few errant curls off her forehead and kissed her.

She turned her face away. "Ugnh…not tonight…tuh…mmm."

He laughed quietly and pulled the covers back over her. "Pleasant dreams, my love." He confirmed that he had set the alarm clock before settling on his back, staring at the ceiling and waiting for sleep to come.

* * *

Gibbs inserted two lock picks into the top bolt. He twisted and it slid back easily. He went to work on the second lock. Tony made a funny noise that probably would have been a laugh but for his broken nose. "When we get back you and Ziva should have a contest to see who can do that the fastest."

"Yeah, and the prize could be handcuffing you to an object of the winner's choice."

"Probie, how many times to I have to explain about that whole…"

"Secret Moussad cuffs?" McGee finished.

"Yeah. Well at least I…I've never been glued to my desk!"

"Could you two save the pissing match for later and focus?" Gibbs said in an angry whisper as he opened the door. "Get in there and secure the doors to the basement!"

* * *

"Ziva!"

"Hmmm…" She rolled away from the insistent voice. She wanted to sleep.

It wouldn't stop. "Ziva! Wake up! There is someone in the house!"

"It's probably Ivan," she said through a yawn. "Let me sleep, Mitya."

"Ivan is not here. You have to get up." Dmitri's tone was becoming more urgent. She sat up in bed and listened. There were definitely voices downstairs. Three, four maybe? One woman, the rest men…

_Shit._

She tried to propel herself out of bed and cried out involuntarily as pain shot through her arm.

* * *

"Did you hear something?"

"Yeah, it sounded like a squeaky hinge. Or maybe a little mouse." Tony pinched McGee's neck, drawing a squeal.

"Not funny, Tony."

"You're right. They could be rabid mice. Or worse…rats!"

"Shut up, DiNozzo!" Gibbs pointed up the stairs. "You and Jen take the top floor. I'll take the second. McGee, stay down here and make sure no one comes in or down."

"Yeah, if Poppin' Fresh comes back you can giggle 'Hoo-hoo!' as loud as possible to warn us."

"Didn't I just tell you to get upstairs, DiNozzo?"

"Right, boss. It's just that we already know that no one's here…"

Gibbs scowled, pushing Tony ahead of him up the stairs toward Jen, waiting on the second floor landing. "And remember what happened the last time we thought no one was in a house?"

Tony set his jaw. "I'd rather not. The memory is a little distracting and I should be focused right now."

"Good."

* * *

Dmitri pulled Ziva's robe over her shoulders before retrieving his gun from the nightstand. "They are coming up the stairs. We should conceal ourselves."

Her head was still foggy from the pain medication she'd taken a few hours previously. "Why can't we stand and fight?"

"You are already hurt. I will not risk further injury, especially when we are so close to escaping. We need to get downstairs to the car and…" he was cut off as the bedroom door slammed against the wall as someone opened it with a kick.

"NCIS, don't move!" Jen shouted. She and Tony stood in the doorway, weapons leveled.

Dmitri fired twice, sending wood splinters flying as his shots hit the doorframe. He pulled Ziva's right wrist toward the walk-in closet. They came into the hallway through the closet's second door just in time to see Gibbs running up the stairs. Dmitri made a sharp left, pulling Ziva with him. She resisted as she realized where he was leading her. "Mitya, there's no way down from the roof. We'll be trapped!"

He locked the access door behind them. "I have a plan."

She wrapped her arms around herself as she followed him across the rooftop. He pointed across the river at a spot in the distance. "We will have an excellent view from here if it becomes necessary to detonate."

A shout carried across the roof. "Nobody's going to be detonating anything, Tushkevich. Drop your weapons."

Ziva turned and raised her gun at Tony, Jen and Gibbs. The freezing wind swept around her, whipping through her hair and robe.


	28. Chapter 28

I am standing on the roof of an expensive Parisian townhouse. It's near midnight, and I finally understand why they call this the City of Light. The Eiffel Tower glitters not far away, just across the Seine. It's the middle of winter and the wind is blowing hard, but I can still hear people having a good time. There's cheering carrying across the river. Oh, and I'm pointing a gun at Ziva.

In all fairness, she's also pointing a gun at me. Intellectually, I know how we got here, but I'm not sure I really understand it. Three months ago I was sleeping on her couch, making her soup, kissing her, really kissing her for the first time. Now she's married to a Russian arms dealer and we're pointing guns at each other. I can't think of any scenario in which that would be okay, unless they were squirt guns, squirt guns filled with tequila, and us doing body shots off each other on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean. Oh, yeah.

I blink as a gust of wind comes on. No, that's definitely not a tequila-filled squirt gun. Wait, what did she call that squirt gun that time? A squeegee gun? I don't think I ever corrected her on that one. Is she actually aiming at me, or is she just aiming in our general direction? Maybe she's really trained on Gibbs or Jenny. Would that be so much better? I adjust my arms. Now I'm pointing my gun at Tushkevich. That's a little better. This is all _his_ fault. Yeah. His fault. My finger tightens on the trigger.

Damn, my face hurts. Blinking really emphasizes that. I should have popped a couple more aspirin before we decided to crash the townhouse without a warrant. I wonder how that would work here. We're not French cops, so they might not have even given us a warrant. Heh, FrenchBI. How long did it take Gibbs to come up with that one?

Tushkevich is whispering to Ziva, kissing the side of her head. Oh, I could rip his face off. Her lips move as she answers him. She's looking at me, she's looking at me! I don't think you're really on his side! I still love you! Am I saying this out loud? No, don't look away…

That asshole with his arm around her is shouting, "You will never find the bomb unless I tell you where it is, and you will never disarm it unless I give you the code."

"What do you want?" Jen asks. Is it wrong that I want him to say 'world domination'? No, even better…one MILLION dollars!

"Safe passage for Ziva and I." Yeah, of course you want Ziva, you son of a bitch. We'll see who gets what they want in the end. I hope you want a lead salad too. Heh. _Fight Club_. Keep talking, creep. "You will transport us to the private airfield where my jet, which you will not track, is waiting. I will give you location of the bomb when we arrive at the airfield."

Hold the phone. Didn't the CIA follow his jet to Morocco? I see Jen exchanging looks with Gibbs, so she must have picked up on this little tidbit too. Her voice sounds less nervous when she asks, "And the code?"

"I will call you from the air." Maybe he's got a hang glider stashed somewhere.

"Not good enough, Tushkevich!" Gibbs yells. "We can't trust you." Well, I'm glad someone said it.

"Perhaps not, but you will know where it is. That at least gives you a chance to prove how good your munitions teams are." I'm sure they'll appreciate that. Maybe we should explain the even simpler solution of _not planting bombs_. Don't think I can't see where you've got your hands, buddy. I hope you live through this so you can hear Ziva telling me she loves me. Because I know she does. Also, it's a damn good thing those cartoon thought bubbles aren't real. Tushkevich moves on where I can't, "Do you still have Smerdyakov?"

"Yes," Jen lies. It's not really a lie. Technically, the body can be released only to me or Jen, so we do _have_ him as soon as we want him. In corpse form, but that's something. "You can have either Smerdyakov or her, not both."

"Don't be a fool, Shepard." Tushkevich laughs, and I shiver as he tightens his grip on Ziva. A blind monkey with one foot would know not to make that deal. "What would I want with that weasel? You can keep him. He is a traitorous devil. I just wanted to make sure he won't be bothering us."

There goes one bargaining chip. Of course, if they don't know he's dead, we can still use it. Maybe tell them he's told us something of value. Ugh, they're whispering again. Stop kissing her! Has she told him about me? I bet she hasn't. I'm sure it's for the best. He probably wouldn't take it well and I don't feel like getting shot today. Or any day. Unless it's with the tequila-filled squirt gun.

Jen is saying something to Gibbs. I catch only the last part. "…can't go anywhere. We let them leave, pick them up at the airport when the plane isn't there."

Tushkevich is shouting across the roof again, "What is your answer?" Just walk over here and come inside where we can talk like rational people. Ziva's got to be cold in that little red thing. It shows a lot of leg, and with the wind…I'm suddenly not that cold.

Jen slowly lowers her weapon and Gibbs and I follow suit. "We accept your terms. You tell us where it is in exchange for safe passage."

That seems to make Russian boy happy. He and Ziva lower their guns and walk toward us. She's not looking at me. She's staring at the ground. Please look at me. Let me know you don't really want to go, that you're just doing this for reasons Moussad won't let you tell me. And…nothing. It's okay. I'll make myself understand.

Gibbs leads the way down the stairs, remarking, "It's dark." Brilliant deduction, Holmes! How do you do it? I'm so glad his gut doesn't have a mind reading feature.

"The light switch is at the bottom of the stairs," Ziva says. I'm following immediately behind her. If I could see more than just shadows, I'd probably be thinking about how much better it looks following her up a set of stairs. Huh. That seems familiar. When did I have that thought before? I don't have any time to think about it because she stumbles on the steps. I reach forward automatically to steady her and she cries out as I catch her arm. Her whisper is urgent. "Let go!"

The lights flick on and Tushkevich has his gun pointed between my eyes. "Get your hands off her."

I release my grip and step back. Ziva cradles her left arm for a moment before placing her right hand on his chest. "Calm down, Dmitri. He was only trying to help. I slipped on the stair and he grabbed my arm to prevent me from falling. He didn't know."

Tushkevich eyes me uncertainly before lowering his gun. He turns to Ziva. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mitya. Let's just dressed and leave." Mitya. She has a nickname for him. She doesn't have a pet name for me. Does 'my little hairy butt' count? Mitya the shirtless wonder there doesn't look like he's got hair anywhere other than his head. Is that a strike against him? Hold on, I don't have to compete with him. She's working. And she _likes_ my chest hair.

"We will check your bandages first. The idiot," he throws a derisive glance for me over his shoulder, "may have dislodged them, or restarted the bleeding."

The insult barely registers because – bandages? Bleeding? Why is she hurt?

"He was trying to help me," she repeats. She doesn't turn to look at me as he guides her down the hall, through the bedroom toward the bathroom. Jenny stops him from closing the door behind them.

Tushkevich gets annoyed. "Could we have some privacy?"

"No."

"It's a third floor window, Shepard. Where will we go?"

"More like what will you plot. Leave it open." Jenny's such a bitch sometimes. It's cool.

He relents and helps Ziva take her robe off. She's got a bandage on upper her left arm. It's got a lot of blood on it, some of it fresh. He's careful as he unwinds the gauze, I'll give him that. He finally gets to the last layer and peels it away.

I automatically step forward. I want to hold her, find a way to make it better. I reach for her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Tushkevich is suddenly standing, coming between us, blocking me. "I do not like your wandering hands or eyes. Turn around." I'm about to retort when Jenny gives me a warning look. Right. He thinks Ziva is his faithful, loving wife and he'll hurt someone, most likely me, if I start yelling about how I've seen her naked. And made love to her. And…yeah, it's a good thing I'm turning around and leaving the bathroom, because that little red nightgown is looking pretty damn sexy.

I shoot a look at Gibbs, who is also facing away from the bathroom and doesn't seem fazed by this new development. "What's going on?"

"We think Smerdyakov shot her during their little get together." Way to share the info, boss.

"And you wonder why I have no wish to see the bastard again," Tushkevich shouts from the bathroom. "Let him rot in one of your American prisons. He can be some filthy animal's bitch. Or worse." Is dead better or worse than dropping the soap? Guess it depends on personal preferences.

I can't not look any more. I turn and see that Tushkevich is just finishing rebandaging Ziva's arm. He narrows his eyes at me when he sees me watching. "Fetch the clothes on the settee and bring them to us." What am I, the houseboy? Why am I taking orders from this joker?

I hand him the clothes, mostly as a way of getting close to Ziva again. "Here you go."

"Now go in the hallway."

"I don't think so."

He looks at Jenny. "Order your man out of the room, Shepard."

"Why?" That's right. Jenny's not gonna take orders from you.

"Because he takes too many freedoms with my wife, and I may shoot him in a moment. You see, I am working with you. I am trying to protect him from himself."

"Tony…" No, don't be indecisive Jenny. I can control it. I'm not looking at Ziva now. I can just stare at the floor. Nice tiling. Nice pedicure. She has such nice ankles. Yeah, Tushkevich is gonna shoot me. "Go check in with McGee."

"Yes, Ma'am."

As I leave the room, Ziva says, "I don't suppose I have time for a nice hot shower…" I turn around to see if she's naked yet and trying to give me a glimpse, but no such luck.

I hope Jenny didn't expect me to go all the way downstairs, because I have a broken nose. I stand on the second floor landing. "Hey, Probie! You holding down the fort okay?"

"Yeah, Tony. What's going on up there?"

Two words – Naked Ziva. And I'm missing it. Gibbs better not be watching. Jenny can watch. I'm cool with that. Maybe she's helping Ziva in the shower. Damn, I need to get back up there. "Nothing exciting. I'll let you know."

I run back up the stairs. My hand is on the handle of the bedroom door when Tushkevich grabs my collar and presses his gun into my skull. That's an unpleasant feeling. "If you say a word, I will kill you. Nod if you understand me."

Oh, I'm nodding. Ziva steps out of the shadows behind him to frisk me, and it isn't nearly as hot as I'm hoping. She's only after my weapons, after all. Good thing she knows where I keep my knife. That's right, reach all the way into that pocket. I must be desperate. She's done too quickly. When did she and Gibbs and Jenny plan this without alerting Tushkevich that…where are Gibbs and Jenny? Do I hear banging and shouting? This could be bad.

"I'll take care of the one downstairs." She looks directly into my eyes. "If you make a sound, Dmitri will shoot you."

Yeah, this is bad.


	29. Chapter 29

Gibbs kicked the door. He took a few steps back and tried a kick with more force behind it. He ran at the door full speed and drove his shoulder into it. It didn't budge. He'd heard Tushkevich dragging something heavy in front of it. From what he'd seen of the furniture in the bedroom, that probably meant the bureau that had been just to the left of the bathroom door was now in front of it. He gave the door one last kick. "Damn it! Who has a bathroom door that doesn't open in?"

"I don't know, Jethro!" Jen sat on the marble counter with a towel pressed against her bleeding forehead. "But while we're here you might as well turn on the shower."

"The hell? How hard did you hit your head, Jen?"

"Just turn on the hot water so the mirror can steam up."

He shook his head in disbelief. It was entirely possible she had a concussion, but that didn't mean he was in any mood to baby her at the moment. "We don't need a steam, we need to get out of here!"

She rolled her eyes as if her motivation should have been obvious. "We need to see the message that Ziva left us, and I think she was trying to tell me it's on the mirror. It's a trick she's used before."

"You still think she left us a message?" Gibbs could hardly believe what he was hearing. "She shoved you into a stone bench and almost knocked you out. She locked us in a bathroom. God only knows what she and Tushkevich are doing to DiNozzo and McGee. She's not gonna leave us a friendly note asking how we're doin' today!"

She swayed a little as she stood, but pushed past him to turn on the hot water. "Wait for it." She dropped onto the bench where Ziva had been sitting a few minutes before, having her arm tended by Tushkevich.

Gibbs saw that the first aid kit was still open on the floor next to the counter. He grabbed a few gauze pads and held them against Jen's forehead. "She really did a number on you."

"The bench did it, not Ziva. I should have gotten my hands out and…"

"Stop defending her, Jen!"

"Something is going on that they don't know about. In case you didn't notice, Tushkevich thinks his plane is waiting at the airfield and that Smerdyakov is still alive."

"And how do you know he's not just playing us? Maybe it was never his intention to fly out of here and talking about the plane is just a way to distract us. Maybe he wants us to get overconfident because we think we can still use Smerdyakov against him."

The angry glint had left her eyes and she was smirking. "Maybe you should turn around and read the mirror."

When Gibbs turned, he was surprised to see writing clearly defined in the steam. He read it three times before deciding it was the most unhelpful message he'd ever seen. "'Dmitri loves me'? That's her big secret message? She's joined his side because he loves her?"

"Be creative, Jethro. It says 'Dmitri loves Monet,' but even though Monet is crossed out, it's still readable. She probably wrote this right in front of him, and that's why she wrote 'me' under it."

"Oh, yes. Now I see why you have so much faith in Ziva," Gibbs said sarcastically. He was starting to feel foolish. He'd trusted Ziva implicitly, even when all the evidence against her. He softened his tone, "Jen, we need to accept that she's not on our side anymore."

"No we don't."

"Jen…"

"I have staked my reputation, and the agency's reputation, on Ziva's loyalty. I am not sacrificing all that in a moment of weakness just because things look bad. This is all going to turn out fine, and if I have to retreat to selfish reasoning to believe that, then so be it." She returned his glare with equal intensity. "We are going to sit in this bathroom and figure out what this message means by the time Tony and McGee get here to shove that damn mahogany bureau out of the way."

He allowed his feet to slip forward as his back slid down the wall. When he was comfortably seated on the floor next to the bench, he said, "It's sycamore maple."

"I don't care about the wood."

"Right. So, Ziva's message?" He had to give a little ground. He didn't know how long they'd be in the bathroom. And there was the slim chance that she was right. His gut was oddly silent on the matter.

Jen wasn't bothered by his quick turnaround. She must have hit her head pretty hard not to notice that. "We spent six hours following them that day. You can't tell me you didn't once look at your surroundings."

"Which day?"

"At the Musée d'Orsay."

"You think I missed something I should have noticed?"

"It was an art museum, Jethro. An _art_ museum. And it was full of Monets! 'Dmitri loves Monet,' with Monet crossed out, implies a negative. Dmitri does not love Monet. Why would Tushkevich contribute money to an institution that supports something he doesn't like?"

"He had an ulterior motive. They did disappear into the vaults for an hour." It could be true. Or Jen could be stretching. "So the big secret message we came to find is either sending us to the bomb or it's a Dear John letter."

"When this is all over, you're right after Fitzgerald on my list of 'I told you sos.'"

* * *

McGee thought he heard something upstairs, but he suspected it was just Tony going back to wherever he'd come from. He sighed. Guarding the door was still an important job, and it was already two against three up there. Technically, it was four against one, but it was hard to keep track of what Ziva was up to.

A noise on the staircase sounded very close. He raised his weapon and opened his mouth to speak, but Ziva held a finger to her lips in an emphatic 'shush.' He watched her descend the stairs, graceful in a pair of pointy-toed high heels. _I'd fall down the stairs if I tried to walk in those._ When she reached the ground floor, he whispered, "What's going on upstairs?"

She walked straight up to him. "I'm sorry about this, Tim."

He was on the ground, disarmed and handcuffed, before he had a chance to react. "What the…?"

She dragged him toward the heavy end table and used his second set of cuffs to attach him to it. Why did he always have to be so prepared? "Am I hurting you?" she asked, crouching beside him and rubbing her arm.

"Uh, not really. Is this all part of your plan?"

Tushkevich appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a firm grip on Tony's collar as he encouraged the agent across the floor with the aid of a gun to the head. "I am afraid _this is_ the plan. It has been all along. Did Shepard have you all convinced that Ziva was on your side? My princess is quite the actress."

She stood and gave McGee a light kick in the thigh. "You could have saved yourselves a lot of trouble if Jen had just listened to me. I told her she would be free to search the house tomorrow, once we were gone, but you just had to take the bait when our plane left with Muhammad and, what was her name? It's of no consequence. I thought you would be occupied with the Smerdyakov situation longer. I suppose it's my fault for not planning on NCIS's curiosity."

"Do not blame yourself for their inadequacies, Ziva." Tushkevich nodded to one of the doors leading to the basement and Ziva disappeared behind it. He shoved Tony ahead of him, still gripping the collar of Tony's coat. "Behave and we may let you live."

McGee was suddenly very skeptical of his friend's chances.

* * *

Despite being manhandled by the man who'd stolen and married his girlfriend, Tony was not above appreciating the stable of automotive plunder in Tushkevich's basement garage. "Did you ever see _Tomb Raider_? Because Angelina Jolie's character has a garage just like this." Tushkevich didn't reply, so Tony went on, "BMW 7 Series, Aston Martin, Range Rover, Jaguar…whoa. Is that Vette a '65 or a '66?" 

"You know your cars. It is a 1966."

"Nice. I've got a '66 Mustang. Funny how that works."

"I do not see how." He shoved Tony against the side of the Range Rover. "I wonder what I should do with you."

"You could always let me go. I'm unarmed and it's not like I could catch up to that." He pointed the car Ziva was standing next to, a dark blue Lamborghini with both doors raised.

Tushkevich didn't seem to like his plan, pressing the gun against Tony's temple. "I will ask Ziva what she would like me to do with you. Smerdyakov had wandering eyes too, you know, and you saw what happened to him."

Tony gulped and readied himself. As soon as Tushkevich turned to speak to Ziva, he threw his arm around in a wide arc, connecting with the gun and sending it flying across the cement floor of the garage. He followed this by breaking a cardinal rule of male fighting and slamming his knee into Tushkevich's groin, causing him to collapse.

The wind was suddenly knocked out of him and pain spread through his chest as a gunshot echoed through the basement. He sank to the floor as Ziva walked toward him, gun still raised. As she passed Tushkevich, she said, "Get in the car, Mitya. I'll deal with this one." She pushed Tony to the floor, kneeling next to him and pointing her gun at his forehead. She whispered, "Do not react. Stay on the ground and do not move until we're gone." She fired at a spot several feet to the left of his head. "I love you."

He made an effort to comply with her instructions and didn't reply. She let her hand rest on his cheek for a moment as she pretended to take his pulse. "He's dead," she shouted across the garage, drawing a laugh from Tushkevich.

"So that brings our body count to two CIA operatives, one CIA informant and one NCIS agent? It is a good thing we are not seeking asylum in the United States."

"Let's just get out of here, Mitya."

Tony remained on the cold cement floor until the hum of the motor receded in the distance. He sat up slowly and unzipped his jacket. The bullet embedded in his bulletproof vest gleamed under the fluorescent lights in the garage. "You really know how to pick 'em, DiNozzo." He couldn't suppress a smile as he made his way up the stairs to unlock McGee's cuffs.

* * *

Gibbs checked his watch. They'd been locked in the bathroom for almost fifteen minutes before Tony and McGee's voices could be heard on the other side. He banged his fist on the door, "In here!" They were free a few moments later. Gibbs surveyed his people. "Is everyone okay? McGee?"

"I'm fine. Ziva knocked me down, but she only handcuffed me after that."

"Tony?"

"She shot me in the chest, then told me to stay down and play dead. She told Tushkevich I was dead, then they both got in the car and drove off."

"What kind of car?" Jen asked. She seemed steadier now, but she was still holding a lump of gauze over the cut on her head. The group started down the stairs.

"Dark blue metallic Lamborghini. Different model from the one they had in Monte Carlo. Nice car, though." Tony picked at the bullet stuck in the layers of Kevlar of his bulletproof vest.

"Okay, we need to get a BOLO, or the French equivalent, out on the car." Gibbs wasn't even sure where to begin informing the French authorities. "And we think we know where the bomb is, so we need to…"

An accented voice spoke from the ground floor, "You need do nothing." A man in a suit stepped into the light, palms out and open. "You will find that I am unarmed, but I understand that you will wish to search me."

Gibbs rushed down the few remaining stairs to do just that. "Who are you?"

"I am Officer Eyal Dagan," he paused to present identification, "and your presence is requested at the Embassy. We have a car waiting, if you would just step this way…"


	30. Chapter 30

At first, Jenny Shepard wasn't sure if the man in the suit was real or a hallucination. Everyone else seemed to be reacting to his presence so it was safe to say he was really there. A meeting at the Israeli Embassy could only mean one thing: her constant phone calls were finally being heeded. They were finally going to get the teleconference she'd been awaiting. As much as she wanted to rush straight to the car, she owed her team the respect of a consultation. "Give us a minute to discuss this."

Dagan nodded courteously. "I will wait in the foyer."

The group of NCIS agents retreated toward the staircase. Jenny sat on the steps, high enough so she was at eye-level with her standing agents. Dagan was still visible through the doorway across the room, so she spoke in a low tone, "I know we haven't really accomplished our aims for tonight yet, but I think we may get more questions answered if we go. His ID looked legit, and he's going to get a lot less polite if we don't agree to go with him."

"He's unarmed," Tony replied, ripping some of the Velcro strips on his vest apart. "We don't really have to do anything he says, no matter how rude he gets."

Gibbs was frowning. "You see his ID DiNozzo?"

"Yeah. Are you suggesting he too possesses the crazy ninja skills we've come to know and love?"

"I didn't see his ID. Who does he work for?" McGee asked, confusion etched in his features.

Gibbs ignored him, continuing, "I don't like it. How did he know where we were? And don't you think his timing was just a little too convenient?"

Jenny sighed. "I think it supports what I've been saying all along."

"And you think they're going to start spilling their guts now?"

"Why else would he be here telling us that someone at the Embassy wants to meet with us?"

"I don't know…to get us out of the house maybe?"

"All right…two of us will go with him, two will stay here. Don't argue, Jethro." She stood, now taller than everyone else. "Officer Dagan?"

He walked back into the room. "Are you ready to leave, Director?"

"Agent Gibbs and I will be coming with you while Agents DiNozzo and McGee stay here and look around."

"I am afraid my orders are to bring all four of you. I can assure that you will discover nothing in this house that we do not already know."

"That doesn't help us unless you plan on actually telling us something."

"I am not sure what information will be shared, Agent Gibbs, but you understand my position. I have been ordered to retrieve all four of you, and that is what I intend to do."

Before Jenny could stop him, Gibbs continued, "And what if we were to give you a piece of information you didn't have?"

"Tushkevich's bomb? It is in a vault under Orsay accessible by an old sewer line. Yes, we are quite aware of its location. Shall we all go?" He indicated the door with a gesture sharper than those he had used to this point.

Jenny pursed her lips. It was doubtful Dagan would be patient for long, and she had kept the faith thus far. "All right."

"Jen!"

"Don't argue, Jethro. We came here looking for answers. I'm not about to turn down an opportunity to find them when they're being offered so freely."

"We don't even know what they're really offering."

"And we won't find out unless…"

"Director Shepard?" A man in fatigues walked into the house, followed by several similarly clad men.

"Captain Dawkins," she greeted. "You and your team have arrived early."

"Yes, Ma'am. I saw the limo outside. The door was open and I heard your voice, so I thought you'd beaten us here. Have you attempted to access the munitions locker?"

"Not yet, Captain. We were waiting for you."

Dagan joined the conversation, "Would you object to some assistance, Captain?"

Dawkins surveyed him. "I think we can manage on our own."

"Observers, then?"

The Marine Captain looked to Jenny for her approval. She nodded. Moussad probably knew exactly what was in the subbasement already. The arrival of their own bomb squad just made it easier for her to attain her aim. She smiled at Gibbs. "Now that the Marines are here to take care of the scene, do you have any further objections to going with Officer Dagan?"

"Oh, you can bet I still have them," he muttered, but moved toward the door.

"At least we get to ride in a limo, huh, boss?" Tony pulled his damaged vest over his head and handed it to one of the Marines before getting into the back of the long black limousine.

Jenny was satisfied to see two Humvees and a supply truck parked outside. She allowed Gibbs to chat with several of the Marines before ensuring he followed McGee into the limo. A thought suddenly struck her. She leaned forward into the cabin of the car. "McGee, do you still have the retinal scans for the access point?"

She almost hit her head on the doorframe as Dagan spoke behind her. "We can take care of that." He indicated a car that had just arrived. Three men, two in uniform and one in a suit like Dagan, stepped out. "As you can imagine, we also have a record of Officer David's retinal scan."

She paused before getting into the limo. "Do you know her, Officer Dagan?"

"I drove her to Tushkevich's hotel in Zurich some weeks ago."

Jenny sensed there was something more, but didn't press. The scenery sped by as the limo crossed the river and navigated the fairly empty streets of the 7th arrondissement. McGee suddenly pointed out the window, "Uh, guys…isn't that our Embassy, right there, that we seem to be speeding past…" She joined the other three people in the car now staring incredulously at him.

Gibbs leaned toward him. "You said you only got handcuffed, not injured?"

"Yeah, boss, but what does that have to do with…" Gibbs' slap prompted him not to finish.

Dagan had the good grace not to comment. Instead, he said, "We will be arriving at the Israeli Embassy in a matter of minutes."

"Oh. Oh! You're Moussad?"

"Always late to the party, aren't we, Probie?" Tony said with a roll of his eyes as they stopped at a security checkpoint outside a gated edifice.

Dagan led them from the car, which parked in an underground garage, up into the building. They were forced to check their guns at the first set of metal detectors. Gibbs was less pleased when his knife was confiscated at the second set. "Are they gonna take my watch and belt at the next one?"

Jenny didn't have the energy to reprove him and collapsed gladly onto a sofa in the second floor lounge Dagan ushered them into. "If you will wait here for a few moments…"

"Hold on, you can't just tell us you've got information for us then leave us in a room."

"All in good time, Agent Gibbs. First, you have injuries that should be treated."

"Look, only Jen and Tony are hurt, and I doubt they're going to insist on seeing a doctor this instant," Gibbs argued, though Jenny didn't think a visit with a doctor was such a bad idea. She was starting to feel more pain in her head.

"I am afraid that there is an issue of timing involved," Dagan stated. "We are operating on our own schedule, not yours. I suggest you take advantage of the medical care we are offering. I will also have some refreshment sent up." He closed the doors behind him as he left them alone in the comfortable room.

"Think it's too late to order the kosher meal?" Tony quipped.

"Wouldn't they all be kosher meals here?"

"I don't know, Probie. Maybe the nice Moussad officer just brought us to a random building and the Israeli flags and Judaic paraphernalia are just a coincidence. Yeah, you should look ashamed, Mr. We're-Passing-Our-Embassy."

"Hey, he never said who he was. He could have been French."

Gibbs sat in a hard-backed chair. "You think we would have been interested enough in what the French had to say to surrender the house to them before we searched it?"

"Uh, no, I guess not. But the Marines were…"

They fell silent as a woman with a black doctor's bag entered the room, followed by a man wheeling a cart laden with covered trays.

It was an hour before Dagan reappeared. "If you will come with me, he is waiting in the Ambassador's office to meet with you now."

"Who?" Jenny asked, disbelief creeping into her voice. She was feeling much better after a dose of painkillers.

"Director David, of course. This way…"


	31. Chapter 31

Gibbs trailed behind Jen as Dagan led the group out of the lounge, down a hall and into a waiting room. A teleconference with Director David was one thing, but actually meeting him…what was he supposed to say? _Hello. You don't know me but I shot your son. _For all intents and purposes. Gibbs looked right and left, planning the best escape route, just in case the subject came up.

Dagan opened a set of heavy wooden door into a large office. A tall man stood from his seat behind the desk as they entered. Despite the obviousness of his identity, Jen made formal introductions, "Director, this is Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo and Special Agent Timothy McGee." She turned and waved her hand toward the man who had passed many of his identifying characteristics to his daughter. "This is Moussad Director Abraham David."

He strode forward and shook her hand. "There is no need to stand on ceremony, Jen. Eyal?"

"Sir?"

"Bring some drinks, then return to your duties."

"Yes, sir." Dagan moved to a sideboard and busied himself with glasses and ice.

David shook hands with each member of the NCIS team and Gibbs was struck by the intensity of his dark eyes. He indicated the conference table. "Please, won't you sit?" He took his own seat at the head of the table just as Dagan placed a tray with five glasses in front of him. "Thank you, Eyal." He sipped his drink and waited until the door closed behind Dagan before saying, "I will not waste your time here tonight with mindless pleasantries. Let me begin by saying that, despite what you may have seen and heard, Ziva has not betrayed us."

Gibbs tasted the amber liquid in his glass. It was sweet but strong. He couldn't place it. Focusing on the drink allowed him to ignore his inclination to make a comment about David's record for trusting his children's loyalties. Ari was the last subject he wanted to raise, under the circumstances. He tried to shut off his mind and concentrate on what was being explained. In spite of what he'd said to Jen, he still wanted to trust Ziva.

"We know that, Abraham. You don't have to prove that to us."

"On the contrary, Jen, I believe the situation has reached the point where I must offer some proof of Ziva's trustworthiness, if only to prevent her arrest or death by allies. Even if she is successfully extracted by Moussad, I have to make a difficult decision. I can comply with the wishes of the Prime Minister and keep our activities and intelligence concerning the Molot a secret. We will resolve the situation and Ziva will return to Moussad. Do you see the problem with this solution?"

"The CIA will still be after her."

"Indeed. She will not return to NCIS, or the United States, possibly ever. So tell me my other option."

"You have to tell us everything and provide us with tangible proof. Make sure she's cleared of all wrongdoing and prove that it's been worth it."

He smiled, but it was sad. "I expected nothing less from the Director of NCIS. Very well. I shall start at the beginning. For three years, we have been waiting for Dmitri Tushkevich to rise from the dead, as it were."

"You've known he was alive all this time?"

"At Moussad, only Ziva and I have been aware of all the circumstances, but yes. We must go back further if I am to tell you the whole story. Ziva had been inside the Molot with a low level member for only six weeks when she first met Tushkevich. She contacted me almost immediately after their first encounter for permission to modify her original assignment of a straight assassination. She saw a rare opportunity to assume a position of power, and she seized it. We decided to keep Tushkevich alive for as long as Ziva could continue passing along information from inside the Molot.

"She had been his lover for three months before he began to suspect her of double-dealing. Telling him she was Moussad was her idea, and a brilliant one at that. The best way to keep a secret is often to tell it. She convinced him that she could use us to the Molot's advantage. Almost all of her communications with Moussad from that point took place right in front of Tushkevich's eyes. In many ways, it was a symbiotic relationship. She would send us intelligence on the terrorists they dealt with in exchange for our elimination rival arms dealers. For some time, we were able to strangle both supply and demand.

"After some time, Tushkevich began talking of a munitions dump, abandoned by the Russians and ostensibly forgotten during the collapse of the Soviet Union. It was rumor and speculation, but he was convinced it existed. He told Ziva he was close to finding it the night he proposed to her, the same night he outlined his plan for cleansing the Molot of those who would attempt to steal the contents of his supposed goldmine."

Jen held up a hand. "Hold on. Are you saying Tushkevich planned _his own_ assassination?"

"That is exactly what I am saying. In fact, you would never have become involved without that development. For some time, intelligence agencies around the world had labeled Ziva as an established member of the Molot, a threat and a target. Jen, have you never asked yourself why you were specifically requested to back Ziva up during the weeks leading up to the assassination? As a foreign operative, you helped to relegitimize her as a Moussad operative. Your reports in the six months following Tushkevich's death recorded far more than the demise of the organization; they provided a demonstration of her allegiance. Our word could never have compared to yours."

"And here I thought it was my skill as an agent. But that still doesn't explain how he, well, died. We spoke to multiple eyewitnesses, and it was independently confirmed that he was dead. How the hell did he pull that off?"

"To explain the, er, reasoning behind the move – Dmitri Tushkevich has a rare genetic condition, known as situs inversus. All of his internal organs are on the opposite side, a mirror image of the normal human anatomy. When Grigory Selfin shot him, Ziva showed him exactly where to fire. I believe she used some colorful language about putting a bullet through his heart. Of course, Selfin did no such thing."

"Even if a bullet doesn't go through your heart, a gunshot wound to the chest isn't exactly a paper cut."

"No, indeed not and Tushkevich was grievously wounded. The bullet punctured his left lung before passing out through his back. However, he has been living on borrowed time since he appeared on our radar. If he had died that night, it would have been no great loss. The job at hand would have been made more difficult, but the Molot would still have been wiped out. The circle of those eliminated would have expanded to include Tushkevich's hand-picked inner circle, Poplyovin and Smerdyakov, among others."

Gibbs was getting sick of listening to David's meaningless answers to Jen's equally meaningless questions. "A member of the US Navy is dead because you didn't off Smerdyakov. Two CIA operatives are dead because you kept it to yourselves that you were saving Tushkevich for some scheme of your own. How many people have died for your damn plan?"

"The question is not how many people are dead, Agent Gibbs, but how many people will be saved."

"How can you guarantee any of that you sanctimonious…"

"Jethro!" Jen interrupted, giving him a warning look. She was doing that a lot lately.

David continued calmly, "Do you know how many people died when the United States dropped the Little Boy and the Fat Man on Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Hundreds of thousands. Now imagine the casualties if al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, Abu Sayyaf, any number of terrorist organizations had access to that kind of power."

The room was silent. This was not something Gibbs had considered before this point. Jen finally spoke, "Are you saying that Dmitri Tushkevich has nuclear weapons?"

"It took him three years to find the bunker, but he discovered between ten and fifteen nuclear warheads left over from the Cold War. I know it sounds unlikely that such powerful weapons would be simply forgotten, He is going to begin auctioning them off to the highest bidders two weeks from now. That is why we have been so careful in protecting Ziva and Tushkevich, a task made more complicated now that he thinks she has cut ties with us.

"Two hours ago, the CIA intercepted Tushkevich's private jet in Rabat and arrested the passengers, one of whom is Muhammad bin Daoud, a known al-Qaeda terrorist. I do not think they will be averse to working with us when they see how we set that up. Nor do I think you will chastise us for eliminating Smerdyakov."

"We assumed Tushkevich found a way to…"

"No, he was given a lethal dose of potassium chloride by one of our operatives posing as an orthopedic surgeon. We could not risk him talking before Tushkevich and Ziva left the country. That occurred one half-hour ago. Ivan Poplyovin met them at an airfield, and all three departed on a Learjet. It is currently traveling east, into Russia. We will give them time to settle in, plan the auction. Then we will move in and seize his arsenal. You see now why we told no one that Tushkevich had survived."

Jen tapped her fingers against the polished tabletop. "I understand that you needed him alive to find the nuclear weapons, but I still don't understand why Moussad didn't tell anyone that Tushkevich was still alive."

"The simple answer is that no one could know. If Ziva had revealed the secret to the entire intelligence community, and it had leaked back to him, he would no longer have trusted her."

"And because Israel could keep the nukes after offing Tushkevich," Gibbs added harshly. "Add them to the stockpile you don't officially have."

"You are free to your own speculation, Agent Gibbs." David leaned back in his chair and surveyed him. "I have often wondered how I would feel when I met you." Gibbs restrained his impulse to make a cutting response. No matter what Ari had done, he was still this man's son. Gibbs confined himself to a curt nod and David continued, "When I first learned of Ari's death at your hands I was furious. I wanted to kill you until I spoke to Ziva and learned of Ari's treachery. Truthfully, I wanted to kill you for some time after that as well, but over time I have realized that I," he paused to sip from his drink, "owe you my gratitude." He spoke quickly, barely giving Gibbs a chance to process what he was hearing, "Ari betrayed me, betrayed his people. I would have had no choice but to order his death, to order my own son's murder. And do you know who I would have been forced to ask to carry out my orders?"

Gibbs felt a pit form deep in his gut. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "The operative closest to Ari's last known location, I would assume."

"His Control Officer, in fact. You saved me the shame and guilt of ordering my daughter to kill her brother. I am not the best father by any account, but even I could never have lived with that."

Tony swirled the ice and liquid around in his glass and spoke for the first time since sitting down, "So the idea of ordering Ziva to kill Ari gives you the willies, but telling her to sleep her way to the top of a vicious gang of arms dealers, that's okay in your book?"

"DiNozzo…" Gibbs tried to summon his most intimidating tone, but David's confession had thrown him off balance. All of his anger with the man for concealing the true nature of Ziva's mission was dissipating into confused melee of emotion.

David stood and indicated the door. "I believe we have finished all we need to discuss for the moment. I will have the first set of files delivered to the sitting room for you to begin reviewing, if you wish. And I would like a private word with Agent DiNozzo."

Jen hesitated, but Gibbs was halfway to the door by the time she said, "Of course. We'll just go back to the lounge." He didn't slow down until he was standing in front of the liquor cabinet he'd noticed while they'd been waiting. He grabbed a glass and the first bottle he saw, pouring himself a generous portion and bringing the bottle back to sit on the end table next to the chair he sank into.

Jen and McGee entered the room a few moments later. She sat next to him. "Are you all right, Jethro? I know it can't have been easy talking about Ari with his father…"

He swallowed the contents of his glass and poured himself another. "You have no idea."


	32. Chapter 32

Tony regretted his bluster the moment Director David dismissed everyone but him. Even though he had meant what he'd said, and really was angry with David for sending Ziva off to marry Dmitri Tushkevich, it was a scary thought to be alone with the man. Ziva had learned her stealth ninja moves somewhere, after all, and Tony didn't know how David was going to react to someone his daughter didn't have orders to sleep with.

He watched David pour himself another drink at the sideboard. Instead of returning to the conference table, he indicated two chairs separated by a small table across from the window. Tony set his untouched drink on the table and waited for David to make the first move. He tried to convince himself he'd been in similar situations before, except not at all, because he'd never had to deal with the father of the girl he'd been in love with also being the director of an internationally feared intelligence agency. Come to think of it, had he ever really been in love before? He took a long sip from his drink, nearly gagging at the unexpected strength of the alcohol.

David finally set his glass on the table and sat in the other chair. "So you are Anthony DiNozzo."

"Yeah." He searched his mental database, but came up only with, "You can, uh, call me Tony, Director."

"Abraham," David corrected. "If we are going to have a casual chat, we may as well be on a first name basis." He took a sip of his drink. "Ziva wanted very much to tell you about what was happening. She has been very concerned with what you will think once her mission is over."

Tony looked for an appropriate response. He'd been telling himself for weeks that everything he'd seen had been work-related, but having it confirmed took away the one thing that had been distracting him from thinking about what Ziva was actually doing. He took a deep breath to calm himself, but his voice still shook as he said, "Given everything you've just told us, I think everything she's done has been pretty much justified."

David eyed him skeptically. "You are allowed to be upset. It's what she will expect, I think. Personally, I have regretted sending Ziva on this mission from the moment Tushkevich fell in love with her. Make no mistake that what he feels his real. I believe that is the thing that gives her the most, eh, trouble, perhaps, with the mission."

"Not to be rude, but why are we having this conversation?" Tony didn't like the implication of David's last statement and he was starting to feel very uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"Moussad has been collecting intelligence on Dmitri Tushkevich for a long time. I know everything there is to know about one man who loves my daughter. I wish to know something of the other."

"How do you know I love her?" From David's attitude toward Tushkevich, Tony guessed that loving Ziva wasn't necessarily the best route to her father's good graces. _I'm not an arms dealer, though. Maybe that counts for something. I'm just an Italian, Catholic, American…those are probably all strikes. Shit. He's gonna hate me_.

David pointed at Tony's upper chest. Tony was about to ask if he was supposed to read further into being shot in the chest when David said, "Because I doubt very much that you are Jewish." Tony reached for the necklace he had forgotten he was wearing. "Yes, I understand much from that. If she did not love you, she would never have given it to you, and if you did not love her, you would not still be wearing it."

Tony didn't like how easily David was reading him. He tried to brush it off, "It's just a necklace."

"You do not believe that. Even if you are not sure why, you do not believe it."

"Look, I know it's a Star of David, but I honestly don't know the religious meaning or whatever…" He knew it was special to Ziva, but he hadn't read deeper than a connection to her home and her heritage.

David finished his drink and stood, walking to the window. He spoke with his back to Tony, "It is not the symbol. It is the necklace itself. It belonged to Ziva's sister."

Tony found that he was balancing on the edge of his seat. "Tali?"

"What has she told you about Tali?"

"Uh, just that she died in a suicide bombing. And that it, uh, made her really mad."

"Indeed." David stared out the window for an interminable amount of time. "Indeed," he repeated. "Tali was not killed by the initial blast. She was rushed to the hospital. Ziva was the first to get there. Tali was conscious in the emergency room and I know they spoke. I was…delayed and did not arrive until she was in surgery. Ziva was already wearing her necklace." He sighed. "I had given Ziva the same necklace on her Bat Mitzvah, and she hardly ever wore it. When her sister died in surgery, Ziva kept Tali's necklace and Tali was buried with Ziva's. Now she never takes it off."

"I had no idea." Tony touched the necklace again, its meaning deepened more than he could have imagined.

David finally turned to face Tony. "When Tali died – that was when Ziva and I began to grow apart. I did not realize how deep the divide had grown until I saw her in Tel Aviv before she left for Zurich to meet Tushkevich. I asked her about you then, but she refused to talk about anything her mission."

Tony wondered if David was trying to confuse him. The whole speech about Tali had been affecting, but Ziva's unwillingness to talk to her father about him sounded like a criticism. This conversation was not going the way he had expected at all. Yelling would have been so much easier. "Maybe she thought you wouldn't approve of me. I'm not Jewish, I'm not…" he trailed off with another look from David.

"Were you paying attention when I told you about the necklace?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Then do not try to make it about yourself. It is obvious that Ziva loves you and her problem is with me. She no longer trusts me as a father." He went back to staring out the window as he became reflective again. "I fathered three children, but hers was the only birth I was able to attend. It was early morning, not quite dawn when she was born. The doctor cut the umbilical cord and put her in my arms and I thought I was looking in a tiny mirror. She was just…and her eyes were just so…and then she began to cry," he said, a sad laugh accompanying his words. "Rachel, my wife, wanted to hold her, but I would not let her go until she had stopped crying. It is strange…then, I would not let her go until I had comforted her, but since that time…"

Tony remained silent. He had the feeling he was witnessing something that didn't occur often.

David continued, "Her mother was ailing when Ziva first went undercover in the Molot. She was not supposed to be gone for more than two months, but the assignment stretched into a year, more. Rachel knew she was dying and begged me to call our daughter back. She pleaded, she cried, she would not be consoled, but I would not contact our only child to tell her that her mother was dying. Our only remaining, child, I mean. But to return to the matter, Ziva missed her mother's funeral. I remember sitting shiv'ah. My father was there, and Rachel's parents, but no one asked why Ziva wasn't present. I allowed them to be disappointed in her rather than admit my own failure." He fell silent, still facing the window.

Tony was unsure what to say or do. Since they'd been left alone in the room, David had transformed from the confident, controlled Director of Moussad who had so coldly informed NCIS of the hell he'd imposed on his own daughter to a regretful shell of a man, confessing his grief and shortcomings to a complete stranger. Tony said the only thing he could, "I'm…sorry."

David took a moment to compose himself before turning around and resuming his seat across from Tony. "You are wondering why I have told you all of this, yes?"

He flinched at the familiar idiom. "The thought had crossed my mind."

"Hmm." David tried to sip his drink, but found that it was empty. He set the glass down and continued, "Ziva trusts you with her heart. I believe that you deserve to know why it is so fragile and she would not share these things with you. I see your eyes, and I do not think you should look at that as a matter of distrust, but rather one of love. I am afraid that is my fault. I have made her believe that weakness is flaw, is not respectable, and one cannot love what one cannot respect. I doubt she will ever allow herself to appear weak in your eyes…"

"She already has," Tony interrupted before he could stop himself. He spoke almost unconsciously, "She nearly died in my arms a few months ago, but she let me carry her. And she let me stay with her and take care of her when she got out of the hospital. But it never made me see her weakness, just her strength."

To Tony's surprise, David was smiling. "So you are saying it is all a matter of perception then? When Ziva is finally able to come home, you will accept her, even with her past and her sins?"

"Look, in the past, like, twelve hours she's broken my nose and shot me in the chest, and I _still_ can't wait to see her again." He sat up straighter as the realization of truth came over him. "I know she's been…doing things she doesn't necessarily want to do lately, but I love her. I will do whatever it takes to get over my jealousy and hurt and whatever else to be with her."

"I know, Tony."

"So…that's it? No warnings, no threats?"

"You were expecting me to blow up?"

"Honestly? I was expecting you to get real quiet and tell me in no uncertain terms why I'm not good enough for Ziva and to stay away from her unless I wanted to die a slow and painful death."

David's expression was slightly hurt. "This is what Ziva has told you I am like?"

"No," Tony replied quickly. No good burning bridges he was still building. "I just meant, well, she doesn't ever really talk about you. Or her family."

"She told you about Tali."

"Yeah, that was…come to think of it I'm not sure why she did. We barely knew each other at the time. But anyway, I just assumed, being the big cheese at Moussad and all, you'd be, y'know, _scary_."

"Rest assured that, in other circumstances, I would be absolutely terrifying." Tony hoped he'd never have to see David in such circumstances. "I accept that I have no right to intercede in my daughter's personal affairs, for the reasons I have told you and others. I can merely form my own judgments. And, strange as it may sound, I do not think you are a mistake. I may even like you."

"I, uh, like you too? I'm sorry, that sounded weird. I just meant that…well, I'm glad we, uh, talked." Tony stood and extended his hand.

David accepted. "As am I. Thank you for listening, and not repeating the things I have told you, of course."

"Not even to Ziva?"

He shrugged. "Use your judgment. For now, you should rejoin Shepard and the others. I have some telephone calls to make."

As he wandered back to the lounge, Tony felt dazed. Ziva was probably going to shoot him again, vest or no, when she found out what good buddies he and her father had become. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Weird."


	33. Chapter 33

Glass rattled in the window frames as the wind blasted the large house on the banks of the Lena River, a minimum of 200 kilometers from anything. Ziva sat on the plush sofa in the den in front of a crackling fire and wished the time would pass faster. She idly flipped the pages of a novel as she sipped a martini. Tony would be holding her as he watched a movie if she were home right now. That was one of the things she liked best about him – he could be with her without having to be focused on her. She first noticed it when she'd gotten home from the hospital after the Neal case; he'd let her sprawl all over him while he'd watched TV. On his whim, Dmitri always insisted on being the center of her attention.

She had been waiting in this godforsaken Siberian wasteland for just over a week. The timetable for the operation was set for ten days, a precaution against suspicion. It gave them enough time for her to travel to their destination and settle in, but would occur several days before the supposed auction. She had trained herself to think in terms of what Moussad knew, as she had been out of contact with them since leaving France. She couldn't tell them she'd seen the nuclear warheads, thirteen of them, or that she knew the names of many of the men who would be arriving in two weeks. Anyone stupid enough to arrive without priority confirmation would be detained without question.

Her only option of communication was a distress signal, for which she'd have to remove the GPS chip Moussad had surgically implanted in her left forearm on her last trip to Tel Aviv, technology the rest of the world did not even know existed yet. The doctor who had inserted it under her skin had been very talkative, describing everything from the circuitry that allowed the chip to operate off the electrical signals of her own muscles to the value of his runaway dog during the R&D process. "Rest assured, I would not put this in you if I wasn't sure it was perfectly safe for Sprinkles," he'd said. She'd refrained from making a comment about the dog's penchant for escape with a given name like Sprinkles.

Tony had asked her what she'd thought about getting a puppy one night. They'd been watching some ridiculous movie about alien invasion…_Freedom Day_? Something like that, and she'd commented on how it was so important to Americans that the dog survives. He'd launched into a tirade about the importance of pets in the culture and his sea monkeys and…she really missed his inanity. Among other things.

She refocused on her book as someone entered the room. Dmitri leaned over her shoulder a moment later. "What are you reading, my princess?"

She realized she had no idea, and closed the book to look at the cover. "_Madame Bovary_, although I can't honestly say I'm reading it. The noise the wind makes is so distracting."

He took the book from her hands, inspecting the spine. "Flaubert's novel about an unfaithful wife. In the original French. Hmm." He walked around the couch, dropping the book on the far end and sitting next to her. He took the drink from her hand and sipped from it before reaching over her to place it on the end table.

She attempted to retrieve her book, but he stopped her. "Is something bothering you?"

"The NCIS agent you killed in the garage…his name was Anthony DiNozzo?"

"Yes." She picked up her martini and drained the glass. She didn't want to talk about Tony with Dmitri. It felt dirty.

He persisted. "Had you slept with him?"

"Mitya, we said we wouldn't talk about these things now that we are together again."

"I am sorry, but please, just this once."

She took a deep breath and said, "As you know, I returned to Moussad as if nothing were amiss after I told them you were dead. I continued on with my duties, and I ended up working with NCIS for a brief period, where I met DiNozzo. We had a…fling. It ended, he felt slighted, end of story."

Dmitri was eyeing her distrustfully. "How did it feel to kill him?"

She blinked. Shooting Tony in the vest had been awful enough. He had to be bruised at the very least. She'd sustained enough hits through Kevlar to know. She'd tried to justify it by telling herself that Dmitri would have shot him in the head and she hadn't really hurt him, but she still felt guilty. She hadn't even apologized, not really. She swallowed and gave Dmitri her best seductive smile. "It felt like I was taking care of one last bit of unfinished business before we left to really start our life together."

He was running his fingers up and down the length of her neck. "You did not feel any…regret?"

"Hardly," she scoffed. "I had to break his nose earlier to convince him I'm no longer interested in what he has to offer."

The hand on her neck suddenly changed positions as he seized her throat. "You did not tell me that."

She gasped as her airway constricted. "Mitya…"

"Do you know what I think? I think DiNozzo was in love with you. I saw the way he looked at you. You acted like it meant nothing in Monte Carlo, just as you acted like it meant nothing in Paris. Did you love him?" He tightened his grip on her neck and she grasped at his hands, trying to extricate herself. He leaned into her face and shouted, "Were you in love with him?"

She could barely find enough breath to lie, "No!" She felt her body begin to go limp as he stood and tossed her to the floor. Even as she struggled for breath, she retreated from him.

"Oh, Ziva…" He sank heavily onto the couch, his head falling into his hands. He picked up an object from the table beside the arm of the couch. Her Jericho 941. "Why did you not reach for this?"

She mentally Gibbs-slapped herself. Why hadn't she remembered it was sitting right there? She'd relaxed too much. Two martinis would have to be her new limit. Disgusted with herself, she crawled across the carpet to embrace one of Dmitri's knees. "I could never shoot you, Mitya, nor could I even threaten it. Why do you think I insisted Selfin be the one to shoot you three years ago?"

"We should never have spent so much time apart." He stroked her hair and she resisted the omnipresent urge to recoil. His touch had become more and more difficult to bear, especially since she and Tony had…she gripped Dmitri's leg tighter. She didn't want to think about who loved her, much less who she loved. That just made things harder. He slid off the couch, slumping on the floor beside her. "Please forgive me. I am a jealous man."

She suppressed a shudder of revulsion and kissed the top of his head, which was now resting on her shoulder. "Oh, Mitya…" Three days and she would be rid of him, finished with the whole mission.

Home.

Tony would never strangle her.


	34. Chapter 34

The wind had not stopped blowing with astonishing intensity for three days. It was late, but Dmitri Tushkevich was not tired. He paced the floor, making a circuit through the connected rooms on the first floor of the house. He passed through the sitting room, the formal dining room, the foyer, the…what was this room even for? It was piled high with boxes of varying sizes. He looked into a few and saw china, linens, pieces of furniture, all the trappings of a happy home.

_But happy families are all alike and we are not like anyone, not even from my favorite novel._

He rushed out of the room, not stopping until he arrived at the door of the den. Ziva was not inside; she had gone to bed hours ago. As far as he knew, she had not been in the room since he had lost control. He opened the door, but did not turn on the lights as he made his way to the couch. She had looked so vulnerable sitting at his knees, literally having crawled back to him.

_How could I have reduced her to crawling? I almost killed her and she still set aside her pride to show her love for me._

He was ashamed of the incident. It had felt like some outside force had taken over his muscles, forcing him to tighten his grip around the neck he had lovingly kissed and caressed so many times before. The anger was familiar – one did not conduct business in his chosen field without a certain amount of aggression and rage – but the source was not. Even when Ziva had first revealed her connection to Moussad, his temper had not flared like that.

_Because I saw how I could use that. I have no use for a rival._

Even if she were lying, if she _had_ loved DiNozzo, would telling the truth really be so much better? Dmitri was sure that she had not been unfaithful since she had come back to him. If she had been involved with DiNozzo not long before returning, it was only natural that she would have some trouble getting over any feelings she had developed. Dmitri had told her to go on as if he really was dead, and she had complied, never knowing when he would call her back to him.

_I am jealous of a man my wife killed to save me._

She was Moussad trained. She could have reached for her weapon, but she did not, nor did she use her hands against him. She had avoided him for the better part of the last two days, but she had not tried to leave or retaliate. If there were going to be consequences, they would have occurred by now. He had no doubt that Ziva's powerful father could have had him dead in hours if she were still in contact with Moussad.

_She did not want to hurt me on any level._

He walked down a short flight of five stairs on his way to the kitchen. He was surprised to find the room brightly lit. His eyes needed a moment to adjust after the muted lights in the rest of the house at this hour. He finally saw Ziva standing by the espresso machine, watching him. "You're awake. I thought you'd gone to sleep in one of the other bedrooms."

"I have not slept yet."

_I cannot sleep without you._

She busied herself with pouring water into the machine. "I don't suppose I should offer you anything then."

"Maybe a few moments of your time?" He leaned his forearms on the central island and leaned toward her.

She touched a yellowing bruise on her neck before nodding and he was once again filled with remorse.

_You do not need to carry your knife and gun at all times. I am never going to hurt you again._

He took a chocolate chip muffin from the cellophane-covered plate in front of him. "It is four in the morning and you are fully dressed. And armed."

"It's too cold to walk around in pajamas and I'm not tired anymore. Why shouldn't I be dressed? And when have you known me to be unarmed?"

_Never._

"Ziva, I cannot do this much longer. I have apologized. I have tried to make you understand why…"

She interrupted him, "I do understand. You were angry and jealous."

"Yes, so…"

"So I've had two days to think about it and I'm not through being angry yet. I said I understand. That isn't the same as saying I approve, or I'm not upset. Or that I forgive you."

_I do not deserve your forgiveness._

He watched her sip her espresso as he ate his muffin. Her small white cup clattered on the countertop every time she handled it. "You are very tense."

"Yes, my husband tried to kill me a few days ago and upwards of thirty terrorists are coming here next week to buy nuclear weapons."

"Clients," he corrected.

"Old habits die hard."

_You are still Moussad at heart. Or perhaps just Israeli._

"There is something else. You are anxious, as if you are waiting. What are you waiting for?"

She looked down at the espresso machine at her left. "Nothing."

"You are waiting for something." He walked slowly, rounding the central island.

_Do not flinch, my princess. Do not shy away from me._

"You want the truth? I'm waiting for you to try and hurt me again! Because I swear, I will not let you!" Tears filled her eyes as she brandished her pistol, which she had pulled from the holster he had seen clipped to the back of her belt. "I won't let you…I'll defend myself. You know I can." He advanced gradually, reaching for the gun she held in both of her trembling hands. It was easy to take from her unsteady grasp. "Dmitri, don't…"

He silenced her with a long kiss. His face became wet with her tears.

_You do not have to cry. I do not want you to cry._

"Please, do not cry, my princess. I was wrong, and it will never happen again."

Her voice was meek. "Do you promise?"

"Of course." He kissed her again, feeling a rush of exhaustion through his body as he realized he no longer had a problem keeping him awake. "I am quite tired as I have not slept in some time, but perhaps in five hours or so you will wake me and join me in bed?"

She pecked his lips. "I suppose I can wait that long, Mitya."

"I love you."

* * *

Ziva listened carefully, waiting until Dmitri's footsteps receded before splashing her face with water from the kitchen sink. She picked up her Jericho from the counter and secured it in her holster. While waiting for a second shot of espresso to brew, she warmed a muffin in the toaster. Settling on a stool at the island, she muttered, "And the Oscar goes to…"

She was sure the next man she had sex with would not be Dmitri Tushkevich. There were only two hours left.


	35. Chapter 35

The kitchen was a good place to wait – both easily accessible and defensible, and equipped with an espresso machine. Ziva looked up from the new book she'd retrieved from the den to see that the sun was on the verge of rising. The clouds to the east were tinged with pink, purple and orange. She removed her gun from its holster and placed it on the counter in front of her. Another espresso was out of the question. She was wired enough.

She turned back to her novel but was almost immediately interrupted as the back door opened. A single man entered, his M-16 at the ready. She leveled her Jericho and waited for him to make the first move. His eyes flicked around the room before he asked, "Clear?"

"Clear." They lowered their guns.

"Is anyone else in the house?"

"Dmitri is sleeping upstairs. I looked in on him twenty minutes ago. Everyone else is in the bunker."

"How many?"

"Forty-three, including two technicians. Two cameras are positioned over the entrance, so the approach is clear, but internal cameras cover a lot of angles."

"And the lock?"

"My retinal scan will release it. I hope someone over there has it."

"After the munitions locker in Paris? Of course. Is there another entrance?"

"There's a tunnel that leads from the basement to level ten. That's the final level above the storage areas. No one will be in those." She waited patiently as he repeated the details she had told him into a small radio on his wrist. "And now?"

"We wait." He approached her, returning the kiss she gave him on his cheek.

"It's good to see you, Eyal."

Eyal Dagan unzipped his thick coat and took off his wool cap. "And you, Ziva. We have all been concerned about you."

She noticed that his eyes were drawn to her neck, but chose to ignore his interest. "Well, I'm fine. What is our plan?"

"We won't move until the operation has started. They'll signal when they've begun, we'll take out our primary target then go through the tunnel to assist."

She raised her eyebrows. "Just the two of us?"

"And a team that is waiting for our okay to enter the house once we're done. Your Americans will be joining us."

"_My_ Americans? You mean NCIS?"

"Yes. The CIA wanted you dead, so the Director decided to inform the Americans of the full extent of your mission. Navy SEALs are storming the bunker along with our people." He carefully placed his M-16 on the counter and removed a pistol from his belt, using it to point through the ceiling. "Shall I take care of it, or do you want to finish this yourself?"

She smiled and quoted from a passage she had just read, one of her favorites, "I'd strike the sun if it insulted me."

"I do not order it; ye will it," he rejoined.

Her smile grew wider. "I knew there was a reason I set you up with my best friend. How is Adi?"

"She is doing well. Only eight to ten more weeks…"

"You must be so excited."

"Yes. And nervous."

She squeezed his shoulder. "You're going to be a great father."

"Thank you, Ziva. I've always thought…there." He pointed out the window at a tiny green light flashing in the distance, simultaneous with the briefest surge of static from his radio. "It's time."

* * *

Jenny Shepard listened eagerly in the command post. IDF commandos and Navy SEALs were in position and ready to begin a frontal assault on the underground bunker where Tushkevich was storing his stockpile of nuclear arms. The SecNav had specifically ordered her not to join the secondary team, so she was forced to wait and listen to the chatter on the radio. 

"India 1, ready…India 4, ready…Sierra 5, in position…Golf 3, holding."

Golf 3, that was Gibbs, McGee and Tony. And whoever Moussad had sent with them. She wasn't terribly concerned with any Moussad Officers not currently on loan to NCIS.

The radio operator spoke in accented English, mainly for the benefit of the Americans, "Romeo 2, move in."

"Romeo 2, confirmed entry. Taking fire!"

"India 4 and Sierra teams, move in. India 1, hold in support. Signal Delta 1."

There was a burst of static followed by some gunfire and shouting.

A familiar voice broke in, "Delta 1, confirmed. Will proceed to target with Zulu 1, standby."

Jenny sighed. Dagan and Ziva would maintain radio silence until they'd completed their task. Gibbs and his team were safe from the firefight for the moment. The SEALs were taking fire. She listened to the continuous chatter from the bunker and felt utterly useless.

* * *

Ziva walked up the stairs with little regard for the noise she was making. Dmitri knew she was in the house and would not be alarmed if he heard her moving around. Eyal followed behind her, careful to step when she did. There was no sense in potentially alerting Dmitri to his presence.

She paused at the closed door of the bedroom, holding up a hand to stop Eyal at the far end of the hallway. She retraced her steps and whispered, "Let me go in alone. Wait outside for the shot, and wait for me to come to the door."

He nodded and she crept back to the door, slowly turning the knob. She allowed her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. Dmitri had shifted in his sleep, his hand reaching across the bed to her side. She made her way to stand beside his nightstand. Just as she was about to cock her gun, the phone beside the bed rang. She holstered her weapon and picked up the receiver in one motion. "Yes?"

Ivan shouted so loud she had to hold the earpiece away from her head, "We are under attack!"

"From who?" Even she was impressed by the alarm in her voice as she shook Dmitri's shoulder. The inopportunely timed call had taken the element of surprise. He looked up at her blearily.

She pressed the speaker button so Ivan's voice filled the room. "I don't know! We are taking heavy fire!" He became unintelligible as he shouted orders to the men in the bunker. "How did they get in?"

"Ivan, we are coming," Dmitri yelled.

Ziva disconnected the call as he jumped out of bed. He was wearing only a pair of black pajama bottoms and his hands were empty. His Walther P99 would still be under the pillow then. She waited until he was halfway across the room.

He turned at the click of metal. "Ziva, we must…what are you doing?"

"My duty."

She had not expected the betrayal to come as such a shock to him, but he was seemingly immobilized by it. "But I love you."

She forced herself to remain focused. "I know. And I am genuinely sorry for that."

"My princess…" He never finished his plea, his eyes remaining wide open as he sank gracelessly to the floor. On her way to the door, she tossed her wedding and engagement rings into the growing pool of blood emanating from two gunshot wounds to the chest, just to the right of the sternum.

* * *

Jenny's knuckles were white as she clasped her knees. The fight had reached an apparent stalemate on the fifth level of the bunker, with the Israeli and American teams unable to advance, but not under especially heavy fire.

The radio crackled as another voice was transmitted, "Delta 1, confirm Alpha Bravo 1 terminated."

She resisted the urge to clap and ask if anyone had taken photos. She wanted something to shove in smug CIA Director Fitzgerald's face – as if nuclear warheads discovered by her agency weren't enough.

"Golf 3, cleared to enter," the radio operator said.

"Golf 3, confirmed."

Now she would only be able to sit and wait as her team moved in through the underground tunnel to ambush the remaining men in the bunker.

* * *

Ziva stood in the hall, waiting for Eyal to confirm and report Dmitri's death. She took deep breaths to calm herself. The trick was not thinking about how unsatisfying the assassination had been. All she had done, all she had sacrificed, and she was still unable to appreciate the magnitude of her achievement. _I could always ask for a medal, I suppose._

Eyal finally came out of the room. "Are you all right?"

She shrugged. "He wasn't even armed. What would he have done to me?"

"You know that is not what I meant."

"I know." She smiled. "I'll be fine, Eyal. Let's just…" she paused. Voices were carrying up the stairs. "Sounds like the rest of our team has arrived."

She started to feel better almost immediately as she rounded the corner and saw Gibbs, McGee and, most importantly, Tony taking off coats and gloves as they waited in the foyer. Tony saw her first and moved to stand at the bottom of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest and a mock-serious glare. "You shot me."

She walked down the center of the staircase. "And I'm sorry for that, but you were wearing a bulletproof vest."

"Yeah, but I had my jacket zipped up over it, so how did you know I was wearing one?"

"Okay, even if I hadn't frisked you five minutes before, I have a pretty good idea of your musculature, and you are not that torn."

"Ripped?" he asked, his smile cracking through his glare.

She stopped on the final stair, pleased to find that she was eye to eye with him. "Whatever. Can we fight later?"

"Yeah, okay." He gave her a brief but wonderful kiss, which ended as Gibbs cleared his throat. Tony smirked and pulled something out from behind his back. "Brought you a present."

"Just what I always wanted. We should move." She hurriedly strapped on the bulletproof vest that matched the ones everyone else was wearing as she led them to the basement. "We'll enter the tunnel, walk for about 500 meters and enter the bunker on the command level." She leaned forward so the laser could scan her eye and went into the brightly lit tunnel.

Tony was close on her heels and walked by her side as they came to the wider section of the passage. "You okay?"

"Fine. You?"

"Yeah. What happened to your neck?"

She tugged at her collar, wishing she'd worn something to cover the bruises. "He's dead, Tony. It doesn't matter anymore." They continued in silence for a few paces. "I really am sorry I shot you."

"You saved my life."

"Still, I know it hurt."

"Yup. Good thing I like it rough." At her sidelong glance, he added, "Don't take that to heart."

She smiled, but it was short lived. "I'm also sorry I broke your nose."

"I deserved that one."

"No you didn't."

"Look, at the time I didn't understand why you were doing what you were doing, but now…I said some things I shouldn't have, things that just made it worse for you. So _I'm_ sorry."

"Tony…"

"I don't plan on doing much apologizing in this relationship, so I suggest you take it while you can get it." He grinned. "Love means never having to say you're sorry."

She laughed as she recognized the words. "I hated that movie."

"Yeah, me too."

"Then why did you make me watch it?"

"It's a classic."

"Hmm." Silence reigned again as the door at the end of the tunnel came into sight. She finally continued, "I'm also sorry for everything…with Dmitri. I'd say it didn't mean anything, but I doubt that will make it any better."

"It's okay. Your dad explained everything."

She almost tripped over her own feet. "You met my father?"

"Oh yeah. We're good buddies."

She paused before opening the door with another retinal scan. "You are such a liar." She turned and addressed herself to the entire team, "There's a short hallway that leads directly to the command center. They're expecting Dmitri and I, so let me go in first and follow at my signal. We should get a visual of the action from the internal cameras in there."

Gibbs nodded. "Good luck."

* * *

Jenny was pacing now, unable to sit still. Casualties were mounting, more on the Molot's side than theirs, but there were still men down. It sounded like a lot of ricochet and grazing injuries on the extremities. No fatalities. Yet. 

"India 4, proceeding down. Clearing level eight."

They were making steady progress again. If Ziva's number had been accurate, about two-thirds of the men in the bunker had already been either killed or captured.

Jenny checked her watch. This could all be over in less than an hour. _Not bad._

* * *

Ziva made no attempt to conceal her approach and entered the frenzied control room with little fanfare. Her presence was acknowledged but no one spoke to her. Three men sat at consoles and Ivan rushed back and forth. She fired a shot directly into the closest man's head. She had killed the second before anyone had time to react.

Ivan finally managed to fire and she was thrown back with the force of the impact of the bullet in her vest. He collapsed a moment later, dead before he hit the floor. Gibbs and Tony had charged through the door, McGee right behind them.

The last man sitting at the console refused to submit to their requests for surrender, firing a few shots before sliding to the floor in a heap.

McGee clutched his left arm and swore, "Damn it! Boss, I'm hit." Gibbs guided him to a chair not occupied by a corpse and checked his wound.

Ziva stayed on the floor, leaning against the wall. She held a hand on her chest, just above her right breast, and tried to catch her breath. Tony knelt beside her. "No fun getting shot. Not even in the vest."

"Yes." She coughed hard and brought up some blood. "Especially not with armor-piercing rounds."


	36. Chapter 36

Tony felt his stomach drop through the floor and land somewhere next to one of the nuclear warheads that had been their main concern to this point. "No…"

She gave him a sad smile. "Yes."

A thin line of red ran down her chin from the corner of her mouth. He wiped it away with his thumb, but it just smeared on her skin. "Didn't we _just_ do this same exact thing?"

"No, that was here," she deadpanned, pointing to her stomach, about a foot lower than her current wound. "And you'd better not be planning to trench me in the hospital this time."

He had to think for a moment. "You mean ditch you? I won't."

She made a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. "Been waiting to use that one."

"What?"

"Nothing."

He held his hand over hers, concealing the bullet hole in the vest from view. If he couldn't see it, it wasn't there. He tried to convince himself that this wasn't as bad as the last time. She was bleeding a lot less – that had to be a good sign. He needed to see what was under the vest to make sure.

"No, don't take it off. I think it's actually keeping pressure on the wound."

"Right." He leaned forward to kiss her. She tasted different, metallic. He tried not to react when he realized he was tasting her blood. When he broke the kiss, he rubbed his nose against hers, whispering, "I'm not losing you."

"You won't. Moussad gave me a GPS chip so I'm easy to track."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"Hey, lovebirds," Gibbs said, pointing to the door. "We're not done here."

"Gibbs." Tony looked at him significantly.

He seemed to understand, kneeling on Ziva's other side and grimacing as he saw the damage. "How often did you get shot with Moussad?"

"Not _that_ often. And never seriously until a few months ago."

"Then you must have spilled a dump-truck full of salt, because you are having a hell of a run of bad luck." Gibbs exhaled loudly and looked around the room. "Can you walk?"

She nodded yes, but Tony interjected, "She's coughing up blood. I think the bullet hit her lung, boss."

"Right." Gibbs grabbed one of the rolling chairs and wheeled it over. "Sit in this. McGee!"

"Yeah boss?"

"You've got one good arm. Go back to the house and drag Ziva with you."

"Boss, maybe Tony should…"

"Tony has to help the rest of us finish the job here. They said they'd set up some basic medical care in the house and you need to get yourself treated. Can you pull the chair with your right arm or not?"

"I can, I just thought Tony might want to…"

Tony finished settling Ziva in the chair and turned around. He was appreciative of McGee's suggestion, but he knew Gibbs was right. "We can't talk about what we want until the shooting stops, Tim." He turned back and leaned over Ziva. "I'll see you when this is over. I love you."

"I love you too. Be careful. You too, Gibbs."

The kiss felt too final to him. Tony watched until the door closed before following Gibbs up a flight of metal stairs. The next half hour went by in a blur as he and Gibbs joined the Moussad team driving the remaining resistance toward the troops coming in from the top floors. Once all the Molot's men had been killed or incapacitated, or voluntarily surrendered in the case of two men in lab coats found cowering beneath a table in the galley, he was detained a further half hour when Jenny insisted he come with the group that went into the lower levels to inspect the stockpile. Among the various explosives and missiles, they found thirteen nuclear warheads.

Tony checked his watch as he ran through the underground tunnel that was now being used to transport wounded men to the makeshift triage center in the house. It had been over an hour since he'd seen Ziva leave with McGee. He increased his pace as he gained the stairs up to the main level of the house. He slowed to a walk as he came to the cleared and converted dining room and living room. He couldn't see Ziva or McGee lying on the floor or sitting in one of the chairs placed against the far wall. He did recognize one man. Eyal Dagan sat on a chair, holding a soaked bandage over a painful looking wound on his thigh. Tony walked straight to him. "Have you seen Ziva?"

He shook his head. "She's not here."

"Then where would she be?" He tried not to sound frantic as visions of an improvised morgue in the parlor sprang into his head.

Dagan, in obvious pain, replied snappishly, "How should I know? They loaded her in the chopper with the three other most serious cases and left about twenty minutes ago."

"Tony!" McGee, arm in a sling, called from across the room.

"Thanks, Dagan." Tony awkwardly patted the Israeli on the shoulder and went to join McGee, who headed for the kitchen. "All grown up and getting shot, huh, Probie?"

He was careful not to jar his arm as he sat at the central island in front of a laptop. "You don't have to joke about it. I know you're worried."

"Why do I need to be worried when I see you right there, sitting at the counter eating a muffin?"

McGee swallowed what was in his mouth before replying, "I meant about Ziva."

"Yeah…hey are those chocolate chip? Maybe Ziva made them…" Tony took the muffin from McGee's hand and bit into it. As soon as he recognized the flavor of one of Ziva's homemade chocolate chip muffins, it turned to dust in his mouth. He spit it into the garbage and handed the muffin back. "Guess I'm not as hungry as I thought."

"I thought it was pretty good." He stared at the computer screensaver, a spinning NCIS logo. He finally said, "They found Tushkevich upstairs, two bullets in his heart. Actually _in_ his heart this time."

"She did say he was dead." Tony sat on the stool next to McGee, unsure of how to feel. "Is your arm serious?"

"The medic told me he thinks the bullet is lodged in the bone and gave me a local anesthetic. They won't know much until they get an x-ray, but it doesn't seem like there's any nerve damage and the bleeding isn't too bad."

"Good. That's good." Tony toyed with a little white espresso cup sitting on the counter. "Listen, Tim…"

"The, uh, nearest hospital is in Yakutsk. They flew her out less than a half hour ago, so I don't know if they've even arrived yet."

"Oh. I was actually gonna say I'm glad you're gonna be okay. I'd, uh, I'd hate to see anything happen to you."

McGee looked at him suspiciously. "Because you'd hate to have to train a new Probie?"

"No, I just…" he trailed off, not knowing how to phrase a simple thank you. "Look, I'm glad I'm not sitting here alone right now, that's all."

He looked up to find McGee smiling at him. "Thanks, Tony."

"Is it all right if we join you?"

Tony swiveled his stool and saw Jenny and Gibbs standing in the doorway. "Sure. Have a seat. Have a muffin."

Jenny sat directly across from him. "I'm sorry you weren't here to see her go, but…"

"That's why you insisted I tour the lower levels with you? I wouldn't have made a scene, Jenny."

"I know. I just didn't think you'd want to keep saying goodbye to her." She ran her hands through her hair. "I'm going back to Pearl with some of the SEALs in an hour or so. I have to get back to DC ASAP." She removed a sealed envelope from inside her coat. "Tony, Ziva asked me to give you this if…I don't know when I'm going to see you and…"

Tony accepted the envelope and tucked it into his pocket. "This is in case the worst happens, right?"

"Yes. I hope you don't have to open it. You three will be flying back to Tel Aviv to be debriefed by Moussad. Try not to make too much trouble."

Gibbs asked before Tony could, "And what about Ziva?"

"She'll probably be there before you are. I doubt Director David is going to leave her in a hospital in northeast Russia for long." Tony felt her eyes flick to his face before she continued, "Not that she wouldn't get excellent care. He'll just want her close to home as quickly as possible."

They said their goodbyes and Jenny left, leaving McGee, Gibbs and Tony to sit in the kitchen, waiting for someone to tell them where to go. Tony entertained himself by playing with Ziva's necklace and listing all the reasons she'd kill him for opening the letter.

He had already decided he never would. Hope needed conviction to survive.


	37. Chapter 37

Abby took her time going upstairs. Wannabe Gibbs had started a new thing where he refused to come down to the lab to get test results. All the information had to be hand delivered in neat reports to his (not his – Gibbs'!) desk in the squad room. Fake Director had supported the decision, like the fakity-faking faker he was. Only Ducky was exempt from the new policy, since it hadn't proved cost-effective to install autopsy tables or backlights for viewing x-rays in the squad room. She tried to jam her hands into the pockets of her hateful blazer, only to find they were not, in fact pockets, but just flaps that made it look like the odious garment had pockets. NCIS was becoming a truly dreadful place to work.

She dropped a set of file folders on the desk normally occupied by Gibbs and walked away, only to be called back by Wannabe Gibbs. "Hold on, Miss Sciuto." Ugly, ignorant, condescending, smelly Wannabe Gibbs. Maybe ugly was a little harsh. She turned to face him and decided it was not. "I don't want to have to wait for you to choose when to grace us with your presence if anything needs to be justified."

"Oh, I think you'll find my reports contain all relevant data." _Except about how you're an asshole who doesn't understand that I don't have all frickin' day to stand and watch you read things you couldn't understand on a good day, what with your tiny little stegosaurus brain._ "The little placard in front of the stegosaurus fossils at the Smithsonian says that it had a small brain, even for a dinosaur. Kind of bad when even the museums go out of their way to insult you."

"Excuse me?"

She pretended she'd been intending to speak aloud. "Just making conversation."

"Don't." He opened a second folder and perused its contents.

"My reports are complete and I really need to get back to the lab…"

"Oh really?" He held a piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger. "And this is _all_ you got from the fingerprints we collected? _One_ hit?"

"It's not up to me how many prints you collect will match ones already in the system! And for the record, even though you gave me a crapload of prints to analyze, most of them matched the guy who was in the system, with only three coming from one other unidentified individual."

"I really don't like your disrespectful tone, Miss Sciuto. You can be assured I'll be reporting your insubordination to Director Quincy."

_Great. Another official reprimand from Fake Director._ In the moment she chose to roll her eyes, Abby caught a glimpse of a familiar redhead on the catwalk. She threw up her arms and shouted in an expression of pure joy, "REAL DIRECTOR!!" Shepard paused and looked down over the railing. Her expression turned peculiar as her eyes found Abby, who continued as she rocketed toward the stairs, "I'm so, so glad you're back! Does this mean Gibbs and Tony and McGee are back too?"

"Not yet, Abby. Were you in court today?"

"No. But when will they be back?"

"I don't have time to talk about it now. Why don't you go change and I'll try to squeeze in you and Ducky in about two hours?"

Abby stopped on the landing, unsure of what to think. She smiled and nodded, "Okay." Two hours would give her plenty of time to conspire with Ducky. She called after Shepard, "It's good to have you back, Madame Director."

Shepard didn't turn as she walked into her office. "Director or Ma'am, Abby."

Abby unbuttoned her blazer and flung it off the staircase into the bullpen. "The mad scientist is _back_, people!" She kicked of her sensible shoes and walked barefoot to the elevator. She'd been saving an outfit in a bag under her desk for this day. As the elevator doors closed on an enraged Wannabe Gibbs' face, she shouted, "If you need to talk to me, I'll be _in my lab_!"

Ten minutes later, she was just finishing lacing up the platform boots that looked so good with her black miniskirt when Ducky walked into the lab. "I see you've heard Director Shepard has come home. Are those handcuffs all NCIS property?"

"Some. Others are mine. Do you think they're too much?"

"It depends."

"On what?" She adjusted the hem of her black skull t-shirt in her reflection in the refrigerator case.

"On whether you're supposed to be dressed as the ghost of Jacob Marley." He hugged her. "Oh, it's good to see you looking normal again. Relatively speaking, of course."

"Yeah, and am I glad our experiment in fascism is over. The Director said she'll talk to us in about two hours to fill us in on what she and everyone have been up to for the past few months."

"Are Gibbs and the rest back too?"

"Not yet, she said. I guess she couldn't really say anything in the squad room, what with all the untrustworthy and shady characters lurking about." Abby leaned against her table. "I wonder what kind of exciting escapades they're gonna be able to tell us about when they get home."

"I suspect it will just be a lot of hints and winking. Well, think about it, Abby. They didn't even tell us they were leaving, nor did they contact us while they were gone." He shrugged. "We may never find out what really happened."

"All I need is ten minutes alone with McGee in this outfit, and we'll know everything from what they did to what they ate for breakfast each morning. What?"

"I'm trying to figure out why you would make McGee wear that outfit."

"Hmm. That's not how I was thinking of it, but now that you say it…I may only need five minutes. So what are we gonna do for the next two hours, Duck-Man?"

* * *

Jenny Shepard paced back and forth in her office. She'd spent an hour conversing with Temporary Director Quincy, and found that she was less than pleased with some of the minor changes he'd made since being made a placeholder. Most would be easy to correct, but still…it would have been nice to come home and find the agency in the same shape in which she'd left it. No matter how tempting, she wasn't going to be taking on any field assignments in the near future. Or perhaps ever again.

She'd spent another hour on the telephone, trying to track down her team. She'd been unable to get updates in Hawaii or Los Angeles, causing her to worry all the way from Russia to Washington. She had finally spoken to Gibbs, who was still in Yakutsk with Tony and McGee, waiting for McGee to be treated in the hospital. He hadn't said much of anything, other than he'd call once they arrived in Tel Aviv. No one had a definite answer on what had become of Ziva, or even where she was. Jenny didn't want to know how Tony had handled that development.

Her first instinct was still that Ziva had been taken back to Israel at the first possible moment, but without confirmation… Jenny's calls to Moussad had thus far gone unanswered.

Now Abby and Ducky were waiting in her anteroom, expecting answers she either didn't have or couldn't give. All activities involving the Molot were still classified at the highest level. She took a deep breath and opened the door. "Come in."

Abby hugged her and Ducky kissed her cheek. She offered them drinks and seats on the sofa. She asked for their impressions of the replacement team, which turned out to be mostly bad. Abby went on and on about Agent Baldwin, to whom she referred as 'Wannabe Gibbs,' and his 'fascist regime.'

Jenny finally said, "They're going to be here for a few days longer, but I'll talk to Agent Baldwin about his bullying of the forensic team."

"Um, Director? We're really glad to tell you about all the stuff that happened while you were gone, and I don't want to be rude, but we really, really want to know about Gibbs and Tony and McGee."

She took a moment to collect herself. "They're going to be debriefed and McGee is injured. Gibbs and McGee should be returning as soon as McGee has recovered enough to travel."

Abby had a hand over her heart and an apprehensive look on her face. "Is Tim okay?"

"Gunshot wound to the upper arm. As I understand, it's mostly muscle damage, so he'll be fine once he heals."

Ducky folded his hands in front of him on the table. "And Tony?"

"He's unhurt."

"But…" Ducky prompted.

She sighed. She was planning to allow Tony leave to spend with Ziva while she recovered, once they found her and if…Jenny wished she could share, but she couldn't even tell Abby and Ducky that they knew anything about Ziva's mission, much less that it resulted in her being shot. Again. "I'm sorry, but I can't discuss anything more for the time being. I promise I'll let you know the minute I learn something I can share. I just have to ask you to be patient in the meantime."

The pair stood and walked to the door. Abby turned just before leaving. "Um, Director?"

"Yes, Abby?"

"I know you're not allowed to talk about it and I totally respect that and I won't ask any more questions you can't answer, but…well, here's the thing. Ziva's been gone for a while now too and Moussad probably doesn't want us to know what she's up to, but if there is some way that you _are_ able to talk to Ziva, let her know that her landlord didn't get her rent, so she was evicted. He called here looking for her, and a few of us would have tried to pay it ourselves, but we didn't know how long she'd be gone, so we just went and got her stuff and moved it all into Gibbs' house, since we didn't think he'd mind too much.

"So if you can't get in touch with her we can just say this was me telling you an amusing story about how Ducky and Jimmy and Michelle and I got to rummage through Ziva's stuff, but if you can, make sure she knows that she doesn't have a place to live when she gets back, but all her stuff is safe, even the all the guns, some of which I'm not even sure she's allowed to have, that were hidden in the back of the closet."

"Thank you, Abby. That _was_ an amusing story. I do have a lot to do now, so if you wouldn't mind…"

"Oh, right. I'm really glad you're back, Director Shepard." Abby closed the door quietly behind her as she left.

Jenny sat at her desk, moving aside some of Quincy's papers. She picked up the telephone and dialed, hoping to finally get some news regarding whether or not Ziva would even need a place to live.


	38. Chapter 38

McGee grimaced as the nurse unwrapped the bandage the Russian doctor had wrapped around his arm some hours before. The painkillers he'd gotten had worn off during the flight from Siberia to Tel Aviv and he could swear it hurt more now than it had when he'd actually gotten shot. The nurse got to the final layer of gauze and muttered something in Hebrew.

His eyes widened in alarm. "What?"

She smiled and gently placed the gauze back over the wound. "I'll be right back."

"Is something wrong?" he called after her. When she didn't respond, he sank into the pillows behind him, talking to himself, "It's always the worst when they won't tell you anything. It's probably gangrene and they're going to have to amputate my arm. Am I going to be able to keep my job as a one-armed agent? How long does it take for Tony to make a phone call and Gibbs to get coffee?" He stopped to listen to the sounds coming from his roommate concealed behind a curtain, but Officer Eyal Dagan's quiet breathing remained steady. "Great. He gets a sedative, I get a date with a bone saw."

The nurse reappeared soon, followed by a doctor with a sizable pregnant belly. The conversed in Hebrew while the doctor snapped on a pair of gloves. "Mr. McGee? I'm Dr. Dagan." His mind went blank as she removed the bandage and he got his first good look at the wound. It had turned an angry shade of red and yellowish-white pus oozed between the stitches. She smiled kindly at him as she examined the disgusting injury. Hopefully Abby's disappointment over the lack of pictures would be offset by her sympathy for his lack of an arm. "You had a gunshot wound, yes?"

"Yes." He was suddenly glad Tony and Gibbs weren't around to hear the squeal in his voice.

"It seems you've developed a bit of an infection. How long ago did this happen?"

"Um, over twenty-four hours, I guess. I'm not sure." The time change was throwing him off. He winced as she lightly touched his inflamed skin. "You can tell me, Doctor – will I lose my arm?"

"Nothing so dramatic." He was fairly certain she'd just barely been able to contain her laughter. "We'll take you to surgery, but primarily to maintain sterility. You'll get a local; we'll remove the stitches and clean up any necrotic tissue. Then we'll insert a drain and monitor the wound, but I don't expect major complications as long as we keep it clean." He let out a deep breath, glad he wouldn't have to think about the potential for phantom limb pain. She continued, "I hope you won't judge our country too harshly based on this."

"It's not your fault I've got an infection. Probably picked it up in that Siberian hospital."

She cocked her head as she looked at him curiously. "You were shot in Russia? And then traveled here?"

"McGee!" He looked up to see Gibbs stood in the door, scowling.

"Um, no. I mean…I don't quite recall? I might have misheard the name. It may have been Liberia. In Africa." He looked to Gibbs, who was now shaking his head. "I'll just shut up now."

Tony had walked in behind Gibbs. "Oh, don't stop there, Probie. You haven't even told the nice doctor your credit card numbers yet!" He made a face as he caught sight of McGee's arm. "Yeesh. Hope they're giving you some good drugs for that."

McGee wasn't on enough painkillers to put up with any teasing. "Why aren't you with Ziva?"

Tony instantly sobered and McGee regretted the question. "We don't know where they took her yet. We've left messages with Director David, but he hasn't gotten back to us."

Before McGee could reply, the doctor said, "Probably because you aren't allowed to use cell phones in ICU. He's been sitting with her since she got out of surgery." She didn't look up from the notes she was making on McGee's chart.

Gibbs seized her elbow. "Hold on. Ziva David is _here_?"

"Dark hair, dark eyes, scar on her left earlobe? Treated for a chest wound? ICU, Room 7. When I see my best friend's name on the admission log, you can be damn sure I'm going to keep tabs on her." She made a final note on the clipboard and crossed her arms, resting them on her belly.

"So you're…um…" Tony scratched his head as his eyes shifted back and forth, "Adi?"

"Yes. I take it you're Tony? And since you're McGee, you must be Gibbs? You're all from NCIS, right?" Her gaze drifted over all three men. "What, did you think Ziva never talked to her friends back home?"

"No, it's just kinda weird to meet like this. But hi, I'm Tony DiNozzo. I'm Ziva's, um…well we…"

"She wasn't sure how to describe you either the last time I talked with her." She extended her hand. "So just to make the introductions official, Adi Dagan. It's nice to finally meet you. All of you, really."

"Dagan?" Gibbs asked. McGee wondered why he hadn't picked up on that sooner, but the throbbing in his arm proved an adequate reminder. "Any chance you're related to Moussad Officer Eyal Dagan?"

"He's my husband. Don't tell me he was in on whatever you were doing in Russia! He promised me he wouldn't be traveling outside of Europe! Did he come back with you?"

Tony winked at her. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

She narrowed her eyes. "Ziva told me I probably wouldn't like you."

"Uh, I actually meant that Officer Dagan is resting comfortably in this very room." He pulled back the curtain on the sleeping Dagan, drawing a shriek and stream of Hebrew from the doctor.

Tony smirked and looked at Gibbs. "_Wizard of Oz_, boss." He was rewarded with a smack. "Okay, I'm gonna go down to the ICU to check on Ziva. Just say yes to morphine, Probie!"

* * *

Tony thought it was spooky how much the ICU of the Israeli hospital reminded him of the one in DC where he'd visited Ziva all too recently. The colors were the same, right down to the pattern of the tiles. He passed a room packed with crying family members surrounding a bed. He got a feeling akin to freefall in his stomach as he approached the room number Dr. Dagan had mentioned.

Director David looked up as he entered the room. "Tony. I was wondering when you would arrive."

"Yeah, I, uh…" He couldn't get over how helpless Ziva looked. Again.

David rose and walked toward him. "I will give you a few moments. I need to use the restroom and find some coffee." He squeezed Tony's shoulder before exiting. "I am sure she would rather have you here."

Tony wasn't able to formulate a response before David had walked up the hall. Instead, he approached Ziva's bedside. "Hey." He took her hand in his and leaned forward to press his lips against her forehead. "You know, this relationship is never going to work if you insist on getting mortally wounded every few months." He tried kissing her cheek this time and waited for a reaction, but nothing happened. "It was worth a try. Worked on Snow White. And Sleeping Beauty. Heh. It figures you wouldn't go along with one of those girly characters. You're more like…well, not a Disney character. Which is fine. I love you the way you are. Well, not exactly the way you are…I prefer you conscious and not hospitalized, but you know what I mean.

"I'm rambling. You're gonna have to wake up if you want me to stop." His grin faded when she again failed to respond. "I should be a little more serious right now, I guess, but you know I'm not very good at that. I haven't opened your letter yet." He took the folded envelope out of his pocket and held it up as proof in front of her closed eyes. "I knew you'd be mad if I read it. That would be like giving up." He pulled the chair closest to him toward her bed and sat. "And I'm not giving up. In fact, I may not even leave until you wake up." He brushed aside a tear, making an effort to get back to his lighthearted banter. "Now, I know I need a shower, but just think of that as incentive. The sooner you wake up, the sooner I'll do that. Just imagine the smell if I'm here for…" He couldn't come up with an appropriate length of time.

"McGee is going to be fine. It's funny. Your friend Adi – you went to college with her, right? – well, she's the one looking after him. I've been a little nervous about Eyal, who's also gonna be fine, by the way. I thought maybe you and he had…but he's married to your best friend, so that explains why you'd be close to him. Yeah, I'm jealous. Maybe you won't blame me for that after…not that any of that was your fault. It's just…Anyway, your friend Adi. I don't think she liked me. Of course, she told me you told her she wouldn't…"

"She was wrong."

He turned in his seat to see Dr. Dagan standing in the doorway. "Wrong about what?"

"Well, not entirely wrong because I didn't like you upstairs a few minutes ago, but…I shouldn't have been listening, but I heard some of what you said. You really care about her."

"I love her."

"Me too." She moved to stand at the end of Ziva's bed, hands in the pockets of her white coat. "I hadn't talked to her in a few months. That used to happen a lot when she was doing whatever she was doing for Moussad. I'd leave a message and she call back two or three months later. Once I didn't talk to her for a year. I didn't even see her at her mother's funeral. Eyal isn't supposed to talk about his work with me, but he'll usually let me know that she's okay when I don't hear from her for a while. I guess he didn't want to say anything this time because of the baby."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"It's a she. All the tests look good so far."

"That's good. I, uh, was actually asking about…"

"Oh, yes. Eyal will be fine. It may actually be a blessing in disguise. He'll be out of work for a while so he won't have to worry about missing the birth or anything like that."

"Yeah. That's important." Tony gently interlaced his fingers with Ziva's. "Why did she tell you that you wouldn't like me?"

"Probably because she knows us both well. And she never said there was something wrong with you. She just told me I wouldn't see the same side of you that she sees." She looked away, picking up the chart from the holder on the end of the bed. "Has anyone talked to you about her condition yet?"

"No, I…her dad was here, but he went to use the bathroom and get something to drink when I got here." Tony realized that he had been expecting Ziva to wake up at any moment.

Dr. Dagan's tone took on a more businesslike quality, "She was hypoxic when she arrived, in the initial stages of shock. They took her to surgery…" she trailed off as her eyes scanned the chart. "She, ah, could wake up in minutes or days and she's at high risk for developing pneumonia."

"Is that all?"

"She's my best friend and I'm not her attending physician. I don't have to consider any other options." She smiled.

Tony smiled back. "Good. As long as we're agreed on that. And Ziva didn't think we'd get along…"


	39. Chapter 39

The first thing she was aware of was her body – on her back, bent slightly at the waist because of the elevation of her upper body, needles, tubes, nasal cannula…hospital. The second was sound – beeping and two men conversing.

"…football in college."

"I played football when I was younger. What was your position?"

"I was a free safety, but sometimes I played on the other side of the ball as a wide receiver, mainly in goal line situations."

"Goal line? You mean inside the box? I had not realized that the terminology had changed so much."

"Wait, are we talking about football or _football_?"

"Are you talking about American football?"

"Yeah. Are you talking about soccer?"

Ziva had heard enough to make a decision. As she opened her eyes and looked around the room for the first time, she mumbled, "I must be dead."

Tony was immediately in her face. "Not even close. You've been in a coma for just over a week, so you're the current team leader if we don't count Gibbs' '91 coma, since he wasn't a member of NCIS at the time." He kissed her gently, but drew back quickly with a worried look. "You don't have amnesia, do you?"

"No, Tony." She blinked hard and focused her eyes on the other man in the room, the one who had retreated rather than advanced when she'd opened her eyes. "Hello, father."

"Shalom, Ziva." He continued backing away. "I will leave you two alone for a moment."

She was surprised to see Tony's face fall. "Abraham, you don't have to…"

"Someone should tell the doctors she is awake."

"I'll go do it. You stay." Tony squeezed her hand and kissed her again before leaving the room. He whispered something to her father on the way out.

She waited until he settled himself uncomfortably in one of the chairs beside her bed. "What did Tony say to you?"

He stared into her eyes. "Nothing."

"Of course." He'd always been an excellent liar. She reached her left hand up to touch her right shoulder, feeling the bandages. She made an attempt to move her right arm, but pain prevented her. She didn't look to see if her father had reacted to her sharp intake of breath. After taking a moment, she said, "I take it I made it back to Tel Aviv."

"Yes. You arrived nine days ago."

"And I've been unconscious since then?"

"Yes." He looked toward the door. "Perhaps I should go see what is keeping the doctors." He took his coat from the back of the chair as he rose to leave.

She wasn't disappointed. If she were honest with herself, she was shocked he'd been there at all. Maybe it was a Saturday. Not that that would keep him out of the office. "Well, I'm sure you need to get back to Moussad."

"Yes, I must return to my office. Hannah will be happy to hear you are getting better." He extended his hand in attempt to shake hers. She didn't even try to lift her right hand, instead reaching over with her left. He stopped in the doorway, as if unsure of how to proceed. He finally turned. "He said that I should stay because you already know how much _he_ loves you."

She blinked. She felt sleepy, but wanted to stay awake. "What?"

"Tony, when he left the room. That's what he said."

"Why are you…?"

"For the past week I have been telling myself that things would different between us when you woke up, and now that I have the chance, I am throwing it away." He returned to the bedside and took her hand. "Ziva, I love you. I am afraid that I haven't shown it very well for most of your life. For that, I am sorry."

"I really am dead, aren't I?"

"No, but you have come close enough twice in the past few months to allow me to understand that you are not just another operative I can send into any situation knowing that you may never come back."

"I'm Moussad. I've always understood the risks." It was harder to open her eyes when she blinked this time.

"You never had to prove yourself, not like that. But I did. I had to prove to everyone that I was cold enough to turn my son into a terrorist, to sacrifice my daughter to the passion of an arms dealer. I had to give up my children to become Director, and now…I am not sure I can see how it was worth it."

"I'm not dead." She was careful not to make it a question.

"And, God forgive me, that makes it feel worse. You are living your life and you are happy and finding love and I have no part in it." He turned his face away and she remained silent. After a moment, he met her eyes. "Tony is a good man. I have had some time to talk with him and…I know you do not need nor would you seek my approval, but…he is a good man."

"I know." She stared at the thinning hair on the crown of his bowed head. When had he grown so old? Her voice was almost a whisper as she said, "You are a good man, too."

"But I should have been better…for your mother and you and Tali and even Ari. No matter what I have done for Israel, it cannot justify what I have done, or not done, for all of you. And now you are all I have left, Ziva, and I can barely face you."

"Abba…"

He leaned down to kiss her forehead as several people entered the room.

* * *

Gibbs unlocked the door of his house and stepped inside. He had offered McGee a room for a few days, just until his arm healed a little more, but Abby had insisted on playing nursemaid. She and Ducky had met them at the airport about an hour before, bombarding them with questions about where they'd been and what they'd been doing. McGee had assured Gibbs he'd be able to hold up under Abby's inquiry, but Gibbs had his doubts.

He dropped his suitcases and flicked a light switch. In spite of Abby's warning, he was still a little flustered when he saw cardboard boxes and furniture stacked in his living room. He pulled off the envelope taped to the piano, smiling at the address in Abby's handwriting – _Gibbs (Don't freak out!!)_. Tearing open the flap, he read,

_Dear Gibbs,_

_If you're reading this letter and you don't already have an explanation for why your living room is full of Ziva's furniture, how come you didn't call me first thing when you got back? And if you've already talked to me, then I've already explained and you don't have to waste time reading the letter. But maybe you're really jet lagged and don't know what you're doing, so I'll just tell you. Ziva is still gone and her landlord evicted her because her accounts were frozen (seriously, the CIA is full of whack-jobs!), so some of us cleared out her apartment and put all her stuff here because we didn't think you'd mind. We were going to leave it at Ducky's house, but there are a lot of guns and he was concerned about his mother finding them. So call me now to tell me you're back if you haven't actually talked to me yet._

_Love,  
Abby_

_PS – _A lot_ of guns. Like, invading a small Central American country a lot of guns._

He shook his head. Abby had briefed him on the entire situation right after he'd given she and Ducky a report on Ziva's condition. Jen had apparently given them a vague summary of what had occurred. His phone rang and he answered without checking who was calling, "Yeah, Gibbs."

"Just checking to make sure you got home all right, Jethro."

"Yup. Maybe a little jet lagged, but all right."

"Take tomorrow off, but I expect you in on Thursday."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Goodnight."

"Night, Jen." He snapped the phone closed, only to have it ring again almost immediately. "Forget something?"

"Uh, no? Everything okay with you, boss?"

"Yeah, Tony. I just thought you were someone else. What's going on?"

"Ziva's awake. The doctor's are checking her over right now, but I don't think they're gonna find anything they didn't already know about."

They talked for a few minutes before Gibbs started to feel the weight of sleep starting to descend. "Hey, I just got in, so I'm a little tired. Give Ziva my best."

"I'll tell her."

"And Tony?" He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to say, "Take as long as you need there."

"Thanks, boss. Shalom."

Gibbs made two quick calls to McGee and Jen to let them know the news and made sure to turn off his phone as he trudged to bed. "Good to be home."

* * *

When Ziva opened her eyes, the room was bathed in bright daylight. She yawned, but when she tried to cover her mouth, she found her left hand was trapped. She looked down to see that Tony had fallen asleep in his chair, leaning on her bed. Her wiggling fingers drew a sleepy smile. "You awake?"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes and looked up at her, his head still resting on her hand. "They said you'd be sleeping a lot for the next few days. So I thought, why not join you?"

"I'm surprised you're not in bed with me."

He stood and leaned forward to kiss her. "Believe me, I tried. You wouldn't scoot over."

She rubbed her eyes with her newly freed hand. "I think I fell asleep while the doctors were here. I had a conversation with my father before that, but it may have just been a dream."

"No, you guys talked for maybe ten minutes before I finally sent the doctors in. I thought you two should have some time together. He was here nearly the whole time you were out."

She was tempted to ask, 'Out where?' but her surprise over the news outweighed her impulse to feign an English error. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah. He's a good guy. We've had a lot of time to get to know each other. He, uh, really feels bad you two aren't closer. We talked a lot about your family. And you. Were you ever gonna tell me you wanted to be a ballerina when you were little?"

"You're lucky I can't hurt you right now."

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're not talking in the whips and chains way."

She winked. "As if I'd need them. But seriously, you and my father got along well?"

"Yeah. Same thing with your friend Adi. She's been in quite a bit too."

"Am I at her hospital?"

"Uh-huh." He sat down again and looked at her with a dubious expression. "Why did you tell her she wouldn't like me?"

"Sometimes I don't even know why _I_ like you," she muttered, squeezing his hand to let him know she didn't mean it. She took a moment to consider the question. "She can be a little high-strung and I just didn't think the two of you would get along."

"That's funny, because some of the stories she's told me about your adventures in college don't seem like the kinds of things a 'high-strung' girl would do, at least not without the influence of a wild and crazy best friend." Ziva reflexively touched her earlobe, wondering if Adi had told Tony the story of their first meeting. He didn't react to the gesture, continuing, "I especially liked the one about the herd of goats wreaking havoc on the math department."

She saw she was going to have a lot of explaining to do. She smiled and began, "Four goats hardly constitute a herd. And that calculus professor had it coming…"


	40. Chapter 40

"Unbelievable. Hospitalized with a chest wound and still getting more action than I am."

Ziva opened her eyes to see Adi standing in the door with her hands resting on her belly. Ziva had been moved from the ICU to a private room on a ward almost a full week ago and Tony had taken full advantage of the move, cuddling next to her almost every night. In spite of their obvious disapproval, the doctors and nurses hadn't said anything; Ziva almost wished they would. As much as she liked sleeping next to Tony, the confines of the twin bed sometimes made it very uncomfortable, especially for a person still connected to IV tubes.

He muttered a few words but he didn't wake right away, nuzzling his face deeper into her neck and tightening his arm around her waist. She poked at his head by shrugging her left shoulder and turned to Adi, who was now leaning over the guardrail of the bed. "It's not as pleasant as it looks, I'm sure."

"I never said it looked pleasant. Eyal would be getting kicked a lot if he tried to hold me like that."

Ziva reached her right hand over to touch her friend's swelled stomach. Her range of motion on that side was improving every day. She could feel the baby moving. "She kicks a lot at night?"

"No, but I do," Adi laughed, guiding Ziva's hand slightly higher to feel a strong series of kicks. "You and Eyal may not even need to give her Krav Maga lessons – strictly for self-defensive purposes, of course. I don't want my little girl getting any ideas about becoming a secret agent from Auntie Ziva."

"Perish the thought. Why aren't you on maternity leave yet? You look like you're about to pop."

"I'd go crazy sitting around at home, waiting for her to arrive and having Eyal pestering me while he limps around on his crutches." Adi suddenly looked at her curiously and pointed to her side. "Are you planning to wake him up, or just let him sleep?"

"Oh, sure, change the subject before I can ask you if you two have decided on a name yet."

"Not yet." Adi rolled her eyes and sank heavily into the chair beside the bed. "He's hung up on 'Ahava,' but I can't do that after that girl who lived across the hall from us."

"The one who looked like she'd been sleeping in the fields with her flocks and clogged at least two of the drains in the bathroom several times a week? How does he not remember her?"

"I don't know. My favorites are still 'Dara' and 'Marni.'"

"_Marnie_. That's a good movie," Tony mumbled, turning his face up. "Alfred Hitchcock? Tippi Hedren plays the title role – crazy woman who's scared of men and red and likes to steal stuff. Sean Connery's in it too. Good movie." He yawned and kissed Ziva's cheek. "Morning."

Ziva returned the gesture before asking, "Have you been listening this whole time?"

He yawned again as he sat up and stretched. "What difference would it make? You guys were speaking Hebrew. I just jumped in when I heard something I recognized. Were you not talking about movies?"

"Baby names."

He blanched. "Ziva, you're not…"

Adi cleared her throat and pointed to her stomach. "You must be a very good investigator."

He looked at her then back to Ziva before a smile broke across his features. "Gimme a break. I just woke up." He stood slowly and leaned back to kiss Ziva on the lips this time.

"You need a shower," she said, scrunching up her nose.

"You smell like hospital," he countered, continuing to hover over her face.

"Seriously, Tony. Go back to my father's house, take a shower, change, and get some decent rest and real food. I'll be fine without you for a few hours."

He seemed to consider for a moment, but acquiesced. "Okay. I'll be back this afternoon, I guess."

"Take your time."

"I love you." He kissed her goodbye.

"I love you, too. Shalom."

"See you later. You too, Adi."

"Shalom, Tony," Adi replied, watching him leave the room. She waited a moment before asking, "He's staying with your father?"

Ziva raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, I think it's weird too, but they get along really well. I'm not sure I like it."

"You and your daddy issues. He's just trying to make up for everything he hasn't done by making sure he's supportive of a guy he thinks is right for you. He sees how attentive Tony is to you and he doesn't want to mess that up."

"He knows I don't need…"

Adi interrupted, "Just because you're all grown up and perfectly capable of taking care of yourself doesn't mean your father doesn't want you to have someone to protect you. The safer you are, the better your man. My parents brag about what a high-quality man Eyal is all the time and they don't even know he's Moussad."

"Is that how your going to raise little Dara?"

Adi looked down and stroked her belly. "Yeah, it looks like I'll be going with Dara after what Tony said. That endless movie stuff must drive you crazy."

"Sometimes." Ziva picked at her fingernails. They were getting a little long for her taste. She remained focused on them as she said, "He wants me to move in with him."

Adi's mouth dropped open for a moment, but she recovered quickly. "Wow. That's a big step for you."

"You just assume I said yes?"

"So did you say no, or are you going to wait to tell him you don't want to and stay in a hotel until you find a new place once you get back? Unless…are you going to stay here?"

"No, I'm going back and I am planning to stay with him until I find a new apartment. I just don't want him to get the wrong message. Is he going to think I'm moving in and then be offended when I leave?"

"Just make sure you tell him you're only going to stay until you get your own place."

"I've tried to tell him, but he just waggles his eyebrows and says, 'We'll see about that.' I think he thinks I'll be so happy living with him that I won't want to leave, and I honestly can't see that happening. Not yet, anyway."

"You could at least give it a chance. Stay with him for a while and then decide whether or not you want it to last longer. Did you ever consider the possibility that he may want you gone after a week or two? I only mention it because I have firsthand knowledge of the Ziva David Roommate Experience."

"Oh, because you were such a dream to live with."

"No, no, no, we're talking about you. Maybe you're wrong and you'll like it."

"I just don't want to hurt him, especially not after everything that happened with…well, the past few months, but I don't know if I'm ready to live with him. We were just friends and then I got shot and we became lovers. Then I ended up getting called away and I didn't see him for two months and now I'm in the hospital again. With all that, I think there was only one week when we were actually having sex."

"Huh. Only a week of sex and he still wants you to live with him?"

Ziva smiled and looked away as she considered it. "It was a really good week."

The two women lapsed into silence as a nurse entered to take Ziva's vitals. Once she was gone Adi half-whispered, "Is it…different?"

"Is what different?"

"Well, I've only been with Jewish men, so I was just wondering if…" She pointed to her lap with both index fingers.

Ziva laughed as she realized what her friend was talking about. "He's circumcised."

"Oh." Adi seemed a little disappointed. "Just curious. I should go start my rounds. Take your time thinking about what you want to happen with Tony."

"He really is a great guy and I know I want to be with him." Ziva wasn't enjoying the contradictory feelings. Things were supposed to have simplified after her mission ended. "I wish I could figure this whole thing out."

Adi smiled and took her hand. "So figure it out later. It doesn't all have to be black and white."

The End

* * *

A/n: Thanks to all readers and reviewers. Sorry I never got to the Tiva sex. Maybe next time. 


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